Peanuts

Whenever Christmas rolls around, I inevitably have the Charlie Brown song “Christmastime” stuck in my head in a never ending loop. The song depresses me beyond belief for several reasons (children are singing mournfully about a supposedly happy holiday, a slow, jazzy piano accompanies them, and it seems ironic that such lyrics as “happiness and cheer” are being sung by childrens’ voices that sound as if they’re on the brink of tears), and it does nothing to aid my usual mood about the holiday. Ever since I reached that peak year where you know santa’s not coming and you’re never going to get that hamster that you’ve always dreamed of in your stocking, it just never seemed the same. On top of that, it’s the time when family suffocates you and prods you with such questions as “so have you found someone who can tolerate you?” and “does this look like a pimple or a mole?” the very real possibility of guilt trips hang over your head as you agonize over what to say about that hideous pink sweater…should you just keep your mouth shut and shove it in the dark recesses of your closet? Or should you risk it all and ask for the receipt?

It’s not all doom and gloom of course, but with my brother abroad this year and my mother mourning his absence, I was bracing myself for the worst yet. But with some pluck and a little help from my friend arbor mist, I stayed positive. Also, selective hearing was a great asset. Sometimes, as we all find as we get older, dealing with your parents is a lot like dealing with children. I never thought I would be thankful for a childcare and guidance management class that I attended along with some of the dimmest girls i've ever met, but i actually picked up a few things there....mainly things i've implemented with my dear parents.

One of the first things I found myself doing was ignoring my mother's negative behavior and rewarding the positive. When she did such things as look forlornly at the ornament box and state, “I guess there’s no point in hanging up the ornaments this year, since kenny’s not here,” I'd pretend to be fascinated by my shoelace and would refuse to dignify her bah-humbugery with a comment. Later, when I prompted her to help me hang the ornaments and she complied, I smiled and said, “Great! You really earned that Arbor Mist. Mmm! Carbonated wine.”

Then there was the obvious need to phrase my words to their fullest potential so that my parents would truly grasp their wisdom- i.e. “when you do ___, I feel____.” “Dad, when you threaten to throw the cat out the window, I feel upset.” “Mom, when you polish off the arbor mist without me, I feel sober.”

Of course, when a calm and collected approach to things still doesn’t seem to help, I resort to another method, one usually reserved for animals. On the way to Grandma’s on Christmas eve, I slipped in my recently acquired Guster CD- music to tame the beast(s). I think it helped- or at least it helped me. Instead of hearing about how best to unload the car or how if the kids touched my dad with their cookie hands he was going to flip out, I listened to the harmony of the songs and went to my happy place. It’s the little things that make Christmas memorable, and beyond that, tolerable.