My New Holiday Tradition

My new tradition is so new, I just started it this past Thanksgiving.  It worked well enough that I'm breaking it out again for Christmas.  The Tradition:  because every family holiday ends up with my mother shouting, "You will treat me with respect" and me rolling my eyes, then her threatening to leave early and me huffing and puffing and crossing my arms, I decided to in fact treat my mother with respect.  Trust me, it's not all my fault; but once I finally recognized the pattern, I realized I'm the only person whose actions I can control.  I saw that when we gather together, my mom wants to be in charge and be the Mother, which makes me act like I'm fourteen years old.  She starts telling me what to do, and I start reacting with the equivalent of "You're not the boss of me."  Then she takes issue with my snottiness, and I fume at the unfairness.  When I go to bed, I berate myself for being such a bitch and promise to be nicer, then it all starts again in the morning. 

Thus my new tradition boils down to "Don't take the bait."  The only way I can enforce this tradition is by deputizing my two daughters (ages 11 and 9) to simply say "Cathy" when I start to be curt to my mom (I figure that if I'm being disrespectful to my mother, they can be disrespectful to theirs).  My younger one does this pretty well, but my older one is like a very biased line judge, her head moving back and forth as she monitors the action, quickly and often unfairly calling fault. 

For Thanksgiving, I always drive my mom and my kids out to my sister's the night before (about a 4 1/2 hour ride), and my husband drives out Thanksgiving morning.  The drive to and from was my toughest test of the new tradition.  I was doing well on the way out until the fight over what I could put on the radio (not between my children and me but between my mother and me).   Because my children were both plugged into headphones, I had no monitor and did not do so well.  During the Thanksgiving visit itself, I was grading myself as a "C," though my sister said I was definitely in "B" territory.  With trepidation, I readied myself for the voyage home.  I decided to institute a bonus round, wherein if I scored 100 points, I could treat myself to a reward to be determined later.  The highest I got to was 30 (usually earned in 5 point increments by not getting defensive or aggressive to something my mother had said), and I was thinking I could still pull it out, until The Parking Lot.  We were driving through the McDonald's parking lot after miles and hours on the road, and I started to rail against the guy not following the directional arrows (yes, I already knew that calling another driver a "dickwad" in front of the children - though not in his earshot - is not what good mothers do).  My mother, using a tone of righteous superiority said, "Cathy, you stop that and calm down."  As I went on the defensive, I could hear the click, click, click of the scoreboard as my points wound down from thirty to zero.

Still, I begin anew this Christmas Eve.

No, Virginia, There's Not

Two weeks ago, my younger daughter wailed (quite out of the blue), "I'm starting to think there might be no Santa Claus!"  Now personally I hate Santa Claus, but I'm not yet/quite a monster, so I soothingly asked her what she was thinking and encouraged her to believe whatever she chose.  Two days ago, I left some trinkets on the steps, meaning to take them up to my closet.  The girls came home from school and saw them, then continued to nag me about what they were for.  Finally I said, "Just take them.  I was going to put them in your stockings but you can have them now."  My younger one looked at me in horror and shouted, "You're Santa Claus?"  I quickly answered, "Um, no, but sometimes I help."  She bought it and was pacified.  I couldn't help thinking, "Jesus Christ, you're nine years old.  Figure it out."

I've never been big on Santa.  I've never used wrapping paper for Santa's gifts that was different from the gifts from Mommy and Daddy.  I've never disguised my handwriting.  Not once have I suggested a letter be written to Santa (and I never solicit Christmas lists because my children are among the most privileged on earth and the thought of them wanting even more makes me nuts).   I got in so much trouble a few years ago when a neighbor girl (whom I love like my own, which makes my mouth a bit freer around her, and I know that's not even close to a good thing) asked if I believed in Santa.  I answered, "I believe in Santa as much as I believe in Jesus."  She thought it a fine answer.  My mother was horrified.  Here's the two reasons I hate Santa.  1)  The whole concept smacks of praying for gifts (which I literally did when I was seven and prayed to Santa for one of those motorized kid cars, which I did not get) and 2)   I think it's mean to tell kids who don't have a hope in hell of getting a bunch of Christmas presents that if they're good they will. 

My friend Mary completely disagrees.  She thinks that it's a vestige of innocence that should be allowed to flicker as long as it will.  In fact, she thinks that belief in Santa is a gift in itself. 

I say, "Bah, Humbug" (and I know you saw that coming).