Oy to the World

My mother offers to help get the sizes I need today, so I can use my 30% coupon at a local department store and buy more for Joe’s kids. My own personal mission to see that they aren’t completely dressed head to toe in Disney characters like their mother.

But in return for the convenience, Estelle wants her palms greased a little too. Greased with the goo that is deception among family members. A devil’s bargain.

I may forgo the run and open the gin.

I will be waking on Christmas morning with my children and opening presents like it is Christmas morning itself.

This might have posed a problem a few years ago, but since Lars chose to inform the children at the time of our divorce that there is no Santa Claus, we don’t have that to contend with. Yes, every 6 and 7 year old needs that little bubble to be burst as well in the saddest year of their life, all so Daddy can claim credit for the neat-o presents instead of the fat guy in the red suit. (The fat guy with the red rimmed eyes needs to be impaled with a reindeer antler)

But since we all know that Mom buys the loot, the good the bad and the ugly, ill-fitting, wrong color, wrong version, etc – we all play along and enjoy the day in a fog of make believe.

My sister and her family, and my mother and Bill, and other invited friends are welcome at my house any time after 1 pm – and are welcome to stay and imbibe and enjoy until 6 pm or so when I take one for the team and see to it that my children attend Christmas Mass, since their father will not make it a priority.

During the scant few hours in between, my mother, scheming as usual, would like me to invite my brother and his family for lunch.

She suggests 10:30.

That’s lunch?

And then she says, that she would like me to tell him that he has to leave by 1 pm ( Hell yes!) so I can go to my boss’s Christmas party.

First, my boss is Jewish and I am pretty sure my kids know that. And secondly, who spends Christmas Eve with their boss?

I begin the first of my many objections with the the logistical problem.

Ten-thirty is too freakin’ early to entertain any guest, especially when the guest is my brother and his awful progeny. Eleven will have to do.

And then I restate what we all know to be true. Joe is late for everything.

Not fashionably late.

Not intriguingly late.

Not a little late so no one notices.

Inconveniently, horribly, God-you-almost-missed-the-whole-thing late. And then will stay his predetermined overly long stay anyway. And expect to be waited on. And say inappropriate things in front of your children.

Mom offers to take responsibility for lunch and for seeing him to his car at the appointed hour. And, I am at liberty to make up a lie of my own invention to tell my children so they believe that they are doing something outside of our house and therefore have to leave at 1 pm and do not spill the beans to my brother or his children that we are having a party and they are not on the invite list.

What?

My next objection begins with the words, “Mom, I am not going to lie to the children – for countless reasons there are not enough hours of daylight left to explain…”

She senses that I am running as fast as I can go in the other direction from her War Room plan.

Rather than risk losing the commitment at this moment, she redirects. I am off the hook for now. She’ll see that my brother calls with sizes.

And with that, the harangue is over. But I have a sense of doom too black and foreboding to ignore. I have not heard the last of this.