We all know that holidays can be a little fraught. There are high expectations, and conflicting traditions. Often, there are in-laws.
I feel lucky to have married into my husband’s family, and I know he feels the same way about mine. But, it must be said, sometimes he and my parents mystify each other a little.
True, after 20 years, my husband understands the basics: Stock up on Chock Full O’Nuts and NEVER recycle the New York Times before it’s been completely devoured. (This may take three to four weeks.)
And my parents get a kick out of my husband’s joie de vivre and utter lack of self-consciousness. They may be a little disturbed by his energy level, but they keep it to themselves.
My mother is often determined to show that nothing my husband can dream up can faze her. My father is determined to stay out of harm’s way.
It all comes down to the fact that my husband is nothing if not a fan of excess. My parents are. . . not.
It gets interesting pretty quickly. My husband loves to do his shopping – all his shopping — on December 24th.
He always invites my parents along, which is the equivalent of asking a banker to Zucotti Park. My father has never once asked him if he is crazy. He just politely declines.
One Christmas Eve, my husband took off, wearing as usual a large Santa hat and an air of delighted anticipation. Hours passed.
The fact that I am usually teetering on the brink of hysteria by Christmas Eve added another ingredient to the family drama.
My parents didn’t want to push me over the edge by calling attention to the fact that my husband had disappeared. In a Santa hat. For the better part of the day.
Suddenly the minivan appeared. It did not stop. It kept coming across the grass, all the way to the back door.
My parents were riveted.
My husband hopped out, grinning from ear to ear. He pulled an enormous air hockey table out of the back.
“Costco had a big sale,” he announced triumphantly.
I pointed out that we don’t belong to Costco.
“We do now! Wow, that line was long,” he said.
My parents retreated to another room.
Drawing on all the adrenalin a man can muster who has suddenly realized he’s attracted the attention of his in-laws and the ire of his wife, my husband managed to get the table down the stairs to our unfinished basement.
Next I heard the buzz of a power saw.
My parents looked at me. I looked at them.
My husband came upstairs. Sawdust covered his hair and shoulders.
“It wouldn’t fit through the door, so I had to cut a notch in the door jamb,” he explained, chuckling.
My mother made an odd strangling sound. My father’s jaw dropped.
The children never heard a thing.
We thoroughly enjoyed the holiday.
I’d like to report we drank one toast to discretion, and another to enthusiasm, but we didn’t. We just drank a toast to peace on Earth, which starts, of course, at home.
