Tomorrow morning we depart for our holiday visit to the relatives. I’ve been looking forward to this. The last time we were all together, three years ago, we had no idea that my husband and I would be relocating to Hawaii, that distance and expense would be such great barriers, that our little boy — then barely walking — would be potty-trained and smart-mouthed before he ever saw his cousins, aunts and uncles again. Despite bearing a permanent scar on his forehead from a nasty fall against the piano bench shortly before we all parted, he doesn’t remember his extended family. Not really. So trying to get him excited about a 9 hour car trip… let’s just say I stand a better chance of getting him to eat brussel sprouts.

I, on the other hand, can’t wait. (Then again, I like brussel sprouts, too.)

I’ve missed my mother-in-law with her lively, talkative personality that’s such a perfect counter-point to my father-in-law’s quiet wisdom. I’ve missed my twin sisters-in-law (one a Type-A, the other Type-B) who’ve given me wise parenting advice and the ability to recognize when my children’s idiosyncracies aren’t my fault. Their husbands, also polar opposites, have a knack for prying my husband away from the estrogen-fest that ensues whenever I’m with my mother- and sisters-in-law. I miss my nieces and nephews. Somehow, the awkward, gangly kids I met when I first married my husband have, in the blink of an eye, turned into remarkable young adults.

Holidays with my husband’s family are a dramatic contrast to those from my childhood. There’s no screaming. No plates heavily laden with food flying through the air. No threats of divorce. No dysfunction. Just one big family focusing on the real meaning of Christmas — the birth of our Saviour, the importance of family ties. The days are filled with family activities, with baking cookies and eating them without guilt. The nights are spent playing board games after dinner until the kids start heading toward bed — that’s when the adults talk over glasses of wine or curl up with good books. Norman Rockwell would love my husband’s family. I most definitely do.

The first time we spent the holidays together, I was a new bride. My husband and I were married in July and bought our first home in late October. When time Christmas arrived, our new living room furniture still had not. It was probably a blessing since the house was still crowded with unopened boxes that everyone had to navigate around for the 11 days we planned to be together at our house. Eleven days. It didn’t seem like such a long time when we first issued the invitation. Instead, I saw it as a chance to show my skills, to insert myself into their family traditions in such a memorable way that my place as one of them would be forever sealed.

I had a lot of big plans back then. I had a lot more energy, too. I was going to become the quintessential “have-it-all” career woman, toiling away at my law office until the holiday arrived, then racing home to whip up 10 different types of homemade cookies, pumpkin and pecan pies, cloverleaf rolls, braided bread, crown roast with wild rice stuffing, and five different side dishes. I did it, too, but just about collapsed with exhaustion at 4 a.m. when the final loaf of bread came out of the oven. The following morning, family began arriving at 9 o’clock. I was too tired and my back was too sore to be glad of it. I’ve learned a lot about spending holidays together since then.

This trip is our first chance to stay with my Type-B sister-in-law, although we’ve visited her home before. Our lives always seem to be on such opposite schedules that we’ve never really had a chance for an extended visit like this. I’m looking forward to it: she has a way of making me feel centered just by sharing the calm that surrounds her. She is also the person who told me during that long, 11-day family gathering way back when that “house guests, like fish, stink after three days.” We’ll be staying at her house for 2 nights before driving to my other sister-in-law’s house.

This year, my Type-A sister-in-law is hosting all of us for Christmas at house. (She’s not a true Type-A, I should point out. She’s imminently well-balanced.) I love being at her home: it’s clean, peaceful, and utterly tranquil thanks, in no small part, to the fact that her children are older and excellent at picking up after themselves. It’s a wonder she’s willing to subject herself — and her white carpet — to the chaos that seems to follow me and my brood.

Most likely, I won’t be posting while we’re away. This is the time of year when blogging should take a back seat to real life. It’s also the first year that I can say that my blogging is going to do exactly that. The past two Christmases, I tried dividing my time between my real family and my virtual one, only to find that I was constantly shorting one in favor of the other. Not this year.

This year, I’m going to enjoy seeing the familiar faces that have grown so much less familiar while we lived on the island. I’m going to forget about my health problems, my worries, and my impending New Year’s diet. I’m going to spend hours catching up with the other women of my husband’s family, and I’m going to try not to count the number of beers my husband and his brothers-in-law consume. I’m going to play games with my kids, and with my nieces and nephews. I’m going to spend Christmas Eve at church, honoring the reason for the season. I’m going to cherish this temporary respite from the mundane routines that make up the rest of my year, and be grateful for such a wonderful family that makes this season so joyous.

My Christmas wish for you: that you turn off your computer and spend your holidays doing the same, because there’s no Christmas gift like the present. Share it with your family and be blessed.

Friday, December 17th, 2004, 11:47 pm   |   My Venomous Life  |  RSS feed Comments and pings are currently closed.