Holiday Wars

So I was totally unprepared for the phone call I got from my mom on Monday. She often calls me at work, even though she knows I don't like to get personal calls unless there's an emergency. The subject of this particular emergency? Thanksgiving Day. It’s not even November! Let the Holiday Wars begin.

I hate the holidays.

I used to love them, back when I was unattached and unencumbered. My parents never went anywhere for Thanksgiving or Christmas. We always stayed home. On Thanksgiving morning, we kids lounged in front of the TV watching the parades. Lunch was promptly served at noon. We nibbled on leftovers the rest of the day.

Christmas was the same. We rushed the tree at the crack of dawn, roused my parents out of bed with our excited cries, and spent the morning playing with our new toys. Lunch was served promptly at noon. We nibbled on leftovers the rest of the day.

When I got married, we spent our first Christmas in our apartment in Washington, D.C., and ate a Christmas supper with friends. It was when we eventually moved back to Oklahoma that things got complicated. First, we had to deal with SO’s parents. This wasn’t such a big deal, because my mother-in-law is an excellent cook and my father-in-law makes great daiquiris. I didn’t really want to labor over an enormous holiday dinner when it was just the two of us, so I didn’t mind spending the day with them.

Then we had LegoGuy. And my parents decided to retire and move up to live nearby. And two of SO’s sisters settled in town. And my little sister settled in town. Suddenly, we had all these kinfolks living around us, and every one of them wanted us to spend part or all of the holidays with them.

Guilt is my mother’s weapon of choice, and she uses it very effectively. She’s starting early this year, trying to woo us into abandoning our plans for turkey at home and come along with them to Furrs Cafeteria for an 11:00 feast. “You know, your brother was hurt that you didn’t come last year.”

Now, I’d checked with my brother when I learned Mom wasn’t going to cook for the holidays anymore. He wasn’t pleased about going to a restaurant, but he’s a good guy. “I’d rather have a home-cooked meal, but I’ll go just to make Mom happy.”

“It’s your mother who’s hurt,” SO said. And he was right. My parents don’t believe in face-to-face communication. Eventually, I heard it from my sister, who’d gotten a tearful phone call from Mom. “She just wants us all to be together on Thanksgiving.”

Why they want to be with us at all is beyond me. They obviously don't want us around for the conversation, since we're not allowed to talk about anything other than immediate family members or the weather. Politics and religion are absolutely forbidden. My in-laws actually like us, and they serve alcohol. My parents think drinking is sinful, so there’s nothing to take the edge off simmering resentment and barely-concealed grudges: like when I forgot her birthday, or when I yelled at my dad that he was a hypocrite, or when I left the Nazarene church and started going to a progressive one that welcomes gays and lesbians. That was years ago, you might say. But they haven’t forgotten.

I'd love to have everyone over at my house, and avoid all these hurt feelings, but my table only seats 4 and the place is too small. I’ve heard of people renting hotel banquet rooms in which to feed their extended families during the holidays. Is this something we’ll eventually have to resort to?

Or maybe I'll get me a bottle of tranquilizers. Take the easy way out. Yeah, that's the ticket!