It's A Wonderful Life, I Think

And thus begins the months long gyration we go through each year to make pretend that everything is hunky dory at the holidays.



When it is abundantly clear we aren't. We all know it and so will everyone else, because once the backdoor slams shut on Christmas, we'll go back to ignoring each other for the better part of the next 365 days plus one for Leap Year.



And so the scheme - as hatched by the ever-plotting master of deception that is my mother is this:



My life is more or less my own on the morning of Christmas Eve - Wake up - squeal with joy - tear open truck loads of loot - squeal some more - nosh on cinnamon rolls and hot cross buns - (washed down with a bucket of coffee if you are me...) until about 10 am.



At 10 I will leave the warm and fuzzy comfort of my cashmere bathrobe to shower and dress, and then bribe my children with caramels to get them to leave the mountain of gifts to do the same.



All so we can make Happy Happy Joy Joy faces when my brother and his ill mannered children infiltrate.



I am not referring them as "ill-mannered" with my nose in the air like the queen would describe the stable boy. I am saying it because I am trying to avoid calling them names.



They come by this oddly out of step behavior honestly so I am trying not to be too harsh. Or at least not misdirect my harshness. It belongs to Joe (and his WhatEverHappenedToBabyJane wife.) Not only do they have shining examples of respect and manners like the Open Door/XBox/Cat Poop debacle, they have everyday examples that would set most people's hair aflame.



The R-rated mouth on their mother (giving Mom's pal Ozzie a run for his money...)



The weird entitlement with which Joe and then, of course, his progeny, open all of your cabinets and refrigerators, and after examining the contents help themselves to whatever calls to them.



The trail of debris that follows each member of the family as they explore every nook and cranny of one's home.



Odd social behavior. Like the time I appeared in my backyard with a tray of lemonade to find that my brother had found the golf clubs I'd borrowed from Charlotte and was chipping golf balls over the heads of our children, the balls clearing the hedges and landing on my neighbor's yard.



And perhaps the worst:



He does not leave. At least not voluntarily.



And I have told my mother this: I will physically eject him from my dwelling with brute force before I let my sister and her family drive around the block even once trying to avoid a nasty haranguing confrontation on the holidays. Whether he arrives at 11 or at 12:45, at 1 pm he turns into a pumpkin and must vaporize so I can welcome the family that truly fills my family's holidays with joy. I can only accommodate to a point.



I get it. I am not generally the finest example of maturity in the room, but when it comes to this holiday situation, if I am the only one who can stomach pulling off this feat of social tap dancing, I will do what I can.



But understand that I have my limits, and despite my demeanor, they are not as far flung as you'd think.