My husband is a sweet, supportive guy. But he's a guy. He's outcome oriented and focuses primarily on the happy factor. He just wants everybody to be happy. To look happy. To express happy. He wants everybody to believe in happiness. Always.

Says He:
It's gonna be fine.
It's going great.
Every year Christmas turns out great.
What are you stressing about?
You're almost there.
You're fine.
We're fine.

Fine Schmine
I'm a process person. While I'm pretty sure that it's going to turn out fine, I am fully aware of what it entails to make fine happen. And I'm most painfully aware that it's all on me.

I'm sorry honey, pulling off a fine Christmas takes more than happy thoughts.

Pulling off a fine Christmas takes Thinking. A lot of Thinking. And Planning. And Coordinating. And Doing. And Coordination of the Doing. And Coordination of the Logistics of the outcome of the Doing (aka The Done). Then there's More Thinking. And a smidge of Worry about whether there needs to be more Thinking. :: 'Cause if you don't worry just a smidge, somethins' really gonna getcha. ::

So, yes, it's gonna be fine. But fine ain't being pulled out of a hat. It ain't magic, mister.

The Holiday Confessional
At my momma's knee, I learned about self-imposed holiday stress, pressure and incriminations. I learned about worrying and fussing and feeling responsible for the holiday joy and rapture of thousands.

Okay, hundreds.

Okay, 15 to 20.

And I learned that at some point, within 72 hours of a fine Christmas, there must be a meltdown of the mama variety.

At Christmas, my mother's unpleasant reality was foisted and blamed upon the most vulnerable and accessible; her children. This particular dynamic worsened after my father died. While I know she mourned him the most at this time, I also think that when alive, my father provided a ballast of sensibility for my mother.

Not that losing emotional control is ever a good thing (unless it's a fit of giggles, I guess), but I am happy to report that I have improved on my mother's holiday beast.

My beast is fair. She has no unwitting targets. My beast is an emotional bulimic instead of bully. She just blows affective chunks, then stomps around in the mess (and sometimes wonders about the chewing gum she swallowed 7 years ago). My beast mostly vents, without unfair implication.

My beast also gives plenty of notice. When she's about to hurl, folks mostly know to get out of the way and/or remember to empty the dishwasher without another reminder.

I know I could beat the beast down if I really tried. But I haven't tried and I'm not sure why. It's just the way it is, for now. It's a legacy. And it's mine.

And even though it was wrong (wrong and more wrong) for my mom to project her issues onto the innocent, I very much understand how she felt.

And even though I make a different choice; a better choice (not a perfect choice), I admit that I have faltered at that fork in the dendrite. I have peered down that darker synaptic alley. I saw that it's a dead end. I will not go there.

To Mom: I've seen that place. I understand. And in my heart of hearts, I know you'd do it all different, if given the chance.