Written By Cathy Drinkwater Better

Memory is a funny thing. We all cherish warm recollections of family holidays, but we edit them in our minds so they wind up looking like a TV commercial for JCPenney–everyone gathered around a Christmas tree, smiling in matching plaid pajamas.

I’m actually starting to doubt whether the perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas (or Thanksgiving, New Year, or any other holiday) really exists. If it does, I want to meet this bunch of overachieving Poindexters and tell them they’ve ruined the grading curve for the rest of us (and ask if they’ll adopt me).

I think it’s time for a holiday reality check.

How we remember it: Thanksgiving Day, and the whole family–including in-laws, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins–is gathered around a huge table groaning under the weight of the holiday feast. Mom lovingly places the final serving dish on the table, and everyone joins hands and bows their heads for grace. “Amen,” they intone; then politely begin passing around bowls, platters, and breadbaskets. No one touches a morsel until the last person is served; and every dish is flawless, from turkey to home-baked pies. Mom even made her famous cranberry relish and carved the napkin rings herself.

What really happened: “Can somebody come in here and help me?” calls Mom. Dad and the kids stay very, very quiet, hoping she’ll think they’ve left. “NOW!” she hollers. Dad enters the kitchen cautiously. “Yes, dear?”
“The turkey won’t fit in the oven!” she cries, throwing all her weight behind a roasting pan overflowing with a bird the size of an ostrich. Pots, pans, dishes, and food cover on every surface in the room; there’s canned gravy on the wall. “What am I going to do?” weeps Mom. “Everyone will be here in three hours, and there isn’t going to be any Thanksgiving turkey!”

“What do you mean, Ôeveryone’?” Dad asks suspiciously as he crowbars the bird into the oven. (Behind him, Susie sticks her finger–which she has just removed from her nose–into a Mrs. Smith’s pumpkin pie.)
“Oh, the usual crowd,” Mom says, wiping her tears with a dishtowel. “Your brother and his wife, my sister and her family–“

“Fred’s going to be here? I hate that guy! All he ever talks about is how he played high school football. That was 20 years ago, for God’s Sake. Give it up, already! And your sister’s kid is a monster. Last year he bound and gagged the dog and cut the heads off all of Susie’s Barbies. And I think–I can’t prove it, mind you–but I think he’s one who flushed the guinea pig down the toilet. Twelve people waiting to use the bathroom, and I have to fish the guinea pig out of the toilet. Have you got any idea how hard it is to dislodge a guinea pig from a toilet?”

By 10 p.m., the relatives have left; the turkey has been picked clean (except for the raw parts near the bone); the dog has been untied; and all small pets have been accounted for. The kitchen looks like a tornado ripped through it, the living room is a shambles, and the kids’ card table contains four plates of completely untouched food. “I’m hungry,” whines Joey. “Is there anything to eat? Mom? Mom, why are you looking at me like that? Mom?!”

How we remember it: Christmas. The children get up before dawn and tiptoe downstairs to see what Santa left for them. “I got an orange in my stocking!” exclaims Susie. “Me, too!” says Joey. “Yay!” Their happy voices awaken the adults, who come downstairs as the first rays of sunlight illuminate the angel on top of the Christmas tree.

Dad slips away for a moment, then returns wheeling Joey’s new bicycle–which he and Grandpa assembled the night before in only 15 minutes–with a big red bow on the handlebars. After singing carols, everyone gathers around the tree to open their gifts. “Thanks for the socks and underwear, Mom,” says Susie, giving her a big hug. Later, Grandma and Mom fix a hearty breakfast while the children play happily with their new toys.

Later, The family has finished a traditional Christmas dinner. The kitchen is spotless–everyone helped with the dishes–and now they’re gathered before a crackling fire, listening to Grandpa spin tales about the good old days. “Tell the one about how you caught that big bass when you were 12, Grandpa!” begs Joey. Grandpa chuckles and launches into the oft-told tale. When he’s done, “God bless us, every one!” says Joey, his eyes shining.

What really happened: It’s 5 a.m. and the kids are jumping on their parents’ bed screaming, “Get up! We want our presents now!” Mom opens one bleary eye and reaches over to wake DadÉbut he’s still downstairs with Grandpa. They’ve been up all night, trying to put the bike together–they keep ending up with parts left overÉbut never the same parts. Grandma appears in the doorway, disheveled and cranky. “I never let my children behave like that,” she sniffs.

The kids drag the women into the living room, then fall upon the presents under the tree like wolves on a carcass.

Within minutes the room is strewn with torn wrapping paper and mangled bows. “I didn’t get the ÔGangsta Barbie’ I wanted!” wails Susie, in full-blown candy-cane-induced sugar hysterics. “I hate Santa! I hate him!”
Mom pours each kid a bowl of cold cereal and tries to help Dad and Grandpa finish the bike. “I wanted a blue one, not a red one,” grouses Joey, looking on. “You’ll get what you get and like it,” Grandpa barks, throwing down his wrench. “When I was a boy, we didn’t even have bikes. We rode around on bare stone wheels . You ever try balancing on a stone wheel, boy?”

The cat hacks up an enormous hairball in one of Dad’s new slippers.

Later, after Christmas dinner, Mom is standing behind a pile of dirty dishes rising roughly as high as the Empire State Building. Grandpa’s asleep in front of the TV with Dad, who’s clutching his stomach. “TooÉmuchÉpieÉ” he moans. In the kitchen, Grandma is pointedly reciting her stuffing recipe for Mom (“For next year, dear,” she says. “Tonight’s dinner is water under the bridge.”). The kids are in the next room, fighting over who gets to play with an empty box. “I saw it first!” “I did!” Then, in unison, “MOM!”

Dad tosses the bike parts into the garage and pops his third beer. Mom is lying down with a sick headache. The children, fueled into a frenzy by candy canes and sugar cookies, are in the basement using Dad’s hand drill to punch holes in the Masonite paneling. Grandpa’s on the phone with the airline to see if he and Grandma can switch the flight home for an earlier one. Grandma tugs on his sleeve. “Tell them it’s an emergency!” she says, sounding panicky.

The dog throws up on the rug.

How we remember it: New Year’s. On New Year’s Eve, Mom and Dad have left the kids with a fun babysitter and they’re heading out for a night on the town: Dinner, champagneÉthe works. The next morning they sleep in; and around 11 o’clock, the children bring them brunch in bed with a single rose in a bud vase on the tray.

What really happened: Mom and Dad couldn’t find a sitter-even the one with tattoos was booked. On New Year’s Day, The kids got up at dawn and finished the last of the candy canes. Now they’re running through the house banging on pots and yelling “Happy New Year.”

It’s only 9 a.m., but Mom’s already broken her New Year’s resolution by eating two jelly donuts and deciding to put off exercising until tomorrow. Or next week–after all, you can’t just jump into these things.

Dad’s at the kitchen table with a hangover as big as Texas from the bargain champagne they drank while watching Dick Clark’s “New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.” He makes a noise for which there is no actual spelling. “Only one more day till they go back to school!” Mom reminds him with forced gaiety.

Suddenly, Joey bursts in and throws his arms around his mom’s waist. “I love you, Mom,” he says. These are the moments holiday memories are made of, she thinks, sighing.

“Oh, and Susie threw up on your bed,” he says, and runs out of the room, banging on his pot.

Good times.