A Ho-ho-horrendously Busy Christmas…

For the first time in my married life, I was unable to celebrate Christmas dinner with my in-laws on Dec. 25. Apparently, that’s a big deal.

Our daughter was selected to participate in a winter volleyball camp at the Olympic training facility in Colorado Springs, requiring a lengthy drive on Christmas.

I thought that was a big deal, too.

Early in December, I began a text conversation with my husband’s side of the family to discuss the dates for Christmas dinner, and we decided on Friday, Dec. 22 at my sister-inlaw’s house. The next day, I received a phone call.

“We need to talk,” my mother-in-law said.

“Daughter said she can’t do two Christmas dinners.”

I said, “What do you mean? We decided on the 22nd, right?”

“Well,” she responded slowly, drawing out her single syllable in order to craft the least offensive explanation, “she said her kids really want to eat Christmas dinner on Christmas Day, so she can’t do it on the 22nd.”

Stunned, I quickly reread our group text. When I had mentioned moving the party, she replied “Okay,” which must have meant something significantly different than the standard American definition.

Because in this case, it meant, “No.” Which is kind of the opposite of “Okay.”

And not just, “No, not on Friday,” but “No, not ever,” which is kind of important information when trying to plan an event.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to impose, but I thought we were moving it, not duplicating it,” I said with a question in my voice. When she didn’t respond, the gears in my brain sped up.

“So if they’re going to have Christmas dinner on Christmas, are you all going to join them?”

She hesitated. “They did ask us to, yes.”

Offense clenched my throat and squelched my words. “Then there’s no event for us to plan, if you’re having it on Christmas. We just can’t be there.”

My incredulous tone carries weight. Most couples must split Christmas events between at least two sides of the family, and depending on divorce and remarriages, multiple sides of the family.

We have been relieved from that stress because my parents don’t celebrate Christmas. It’s not religious, it’s personal. The season simply exhausted them, and they quit Christmas parties, events, and decorations in my childhood.

As I’ve moved into the same stage of my life, I completely empathize.

My schedule was booked solid for two full weeks before Christmas, leaving me stressed and anxious when unexpected delays or urgent necessities broke into my carefully planned days.

Like the Thursday before Christmas. My husband and I had scheduled an appointment with my parents for some advice.

We no sooner sat down than a stranger knocked on the front door. My father, in need of a few new knees, hobbled to the front door and returned, keys in hand.

“I’m going to put some gas in this guy’s car,” he said. Turning to my mother, he asked, “Do you want to ride with us?”

Mom declined. Filled with apprehension, she flitted from the south side of the house to the north side, rubbernecking out each window.

I excused myself from the intermission to switch the laundry.

When I returned ten minutes later, Dad sat in his chair in the breakfast room, pressing a bloody paper towel to long gash on his forehead. My mother assembled first aid items.

I was floored. “What happened?” I blurted.

No one answered me. Filling with disbelief and fury, I demanded, “Did that man assault you?”

Dad chuckled, which I took as a good sign. “I wish he had assaulted me — I would have assaulted him right back!”

The man had needed more than gas — his engine wouldn’t start. With experience bringing sluggish engines to life, Dad put his head under the hood, just in time for the car to backfire and blow the gasket into his face, leaving a two-inch gash from singed hairline to burnt brow.

It took a little convincing, but after a phone call to Phillips Family Healthcare and an assurance that no, they would not make Dad sit in the waiting room with an active bleed, my brother transported them to the facility.

My husband and I looked at each other.

“I guess we need to reschedule?” I said.

He laughed, which I took as a good sign, because neither of us had minutes to spare on the schedule.

But what can you do when your 2:30 literally gets cut? Dad returned within an hour, and his jovial mood relieved my anxiety. The stranger had not made a reappearance, and had at some point during the chaos successfully moved his vehicle.

About that time, I fielded another phone call from Chris’ mom. Despite the scheduling snafu, she suggested at least having an informal get-together for the kids’ sake.

I obligingly sent a group text asking which date worked best: Dec. 22 or 23. Even though every single person agreed to either date, they waffled when I actually announced the 22nd. Believe it or not.

Thankfully, we enjoyed a Christmas party with them, even if it was catered Chick-fil-a on Not Christmas. Because on actual Christmas, we found ourselves, due mostly to poor planning on my part, newly arrived at our lodging in Colorado Springs with a sole Hungry-Man in the freezer.

Not a single eatery or market was open, save IHOP.

We carted the famished family to the establishment and waited with the rest of the town nearly an hour and a half for food. The evening ended surprisingly delightfully, the kids’ hands full of twisty balloon sculptures and their stomachs full of delectable breakfast foods.

I think we might make it a Christmas tradition.

Just, Heaven forbid, not on December 25.

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures life with their seven children provides.

Her columns appear monthly in the Marion Ledger, with reprints, such as this Column from Christmas Past in the December 2017 edition, appearing in the online edition of the Times.