Christmas

Dec 25, 20243 min read

It’s Christmas morning, and I’m in Arizona. The day began with a knock on the door, and Brady handed me a freshly made cup of coffee. As I sipped it, I watched the three kids trail down the stairs, their eyes lighting up at the sight of a mountain of presents filling the living room. Even I was surprised—there were more presents than I had seen when I went to sleep! They started with their stockings, then took turns opening one gift at a time, stretching out the excitement for hours. It was pure joy—such a contrast to what I heard about my nephews, who tore through their gifts in less than an hour. They also made me a stocking and gave me lots of thoughtful gifts. The morning was filled with laughter, topped off with an incredible spread of food that Brady kept bringing out. It was such a special moment, and I’m so glad I decided to come here.

With Brady’s encouragement, I made the choice to return to my mom’s for Christmas dinner, knowing my dad wouldn’t be there (though, unfortunately, Ron would—and I’m not a fan). I hopped in the car and drove the 4½ hours back, blasting music and singing the whole way, which was awesome. When I arrived, the tension was palpable. I kept quiet, asking my mom if she needed help and how her morning had been. She mentioned that Kelley had come early to put in the potatoes (true), but mostly, it was so the kids could open more presents. That’s exactly what they did.

My mom, convinced the Disney tickets she got for the kids wouldn’t be “surprising enough,” decided to go out and buy even more gifts. Honestly, the kids already had more than plenty. When they opened the extra presents, their reactions were lackluster at best—completely underwhelmed. I got some lovely things, which made me feel a little guilty knowing how much more money they spent compared to me. But then again, isn’t Christmas supposed to be about more than just the gifts?

Archie’s reaction to my gift, though, took the cake. He already had it—and hated it. He yelled at me, loud enough to turn heads, and his mom just sat there, saying nothing. I tried to smooth things over by offering to exchange it for something else, but the damage was already done. It was shocking and hurtful, but no one else seemed to think it was a big deal.

Dinner followed, and while my mom did an amazing job preparing everything, it was hard to enjoy it. The whole meal lasted barely 20 minutes at the table. My sister, meanwhile, couldn’t resist making snide remarks about everything—from the temperature of the food to the taste of the pie. Seriously? Just say it’s great and move on! To top it off, my mom had made separate food for the kids because, apparently, “they don’t eat anything.” It’s ridiculous, to be honest. Most of the dinner consisted of Archie running around, complaining about how cold he was, and yelling at my mom about it while my sister and mom bent over backward to appease him.

By the end of the night, I couldn’t help but think: Is this really what Christmas is about? In less than an hour and a half, the entire crew packed up and left, gifts and all, leaving me and my mom to clean up the aftermath. Exhausted and running on four hours of sleep, I crawled into bed wondering why I even drove back.