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ninanevermore.
.
.
I need to boycott any and all events on my side of the family when my stepsister will not be there. When she and her family show up, it is easy to forget that my family is not actually fun. They are good people, mind you, but the kind of good people that bore you to tears.
Let’s take, for example, a typical gathering involving me, my two brothers who do not consider me to be the living dead, and my stepbrother. Mostly, they will all stare the TV watching what ever kind of sport is in season or maybe Fox News (which my dad watches when there is not a game that he cares about being broadcasted). Any conversation that takes place will happen during the commercials, when my father will try to convince me that America is in a state of decline and it is mostly my fault because sometimes I vote for Democrats. I will smile and make a comment about the weather, and my dad will say that no, I need to listen to him because…and then the game will come back on and the conversation will have to be continued during the next commercial.
Hours go by, and the pattern repeats at commercial intervals until I feel I have done my time and I can make an excuse to leave. But when my stepsister is there, the TV may not even be on. The kids are too loud and would drown out the TV, anyway. There are jokes and laughter and squeals and giggles. My family suddenly acts like one of those families on TV, the ones I always wish I were part of on those holidays when my stepsister and her brood can’t make the drive from Fort Worth. The thing is, my stepsister has also been known to vote for Democrats, yet the decline of civilization is somehow not her fault. She is a tall, no-nonsense looking woman with a wonderful talent for nonsense. Her tongue is razor sharp, and with it she can cut open the bubble of boring that generally surround my father’s house, letting all the good conversations and general mayhem (that we were all apparently secretly capable of all along) spill forth in a frothy foam of mirth.
My stepsister and I are not close by any means. We didn’t meet until we were adults and have never lived any closer than 4 and a half hours from each other. Our relationship is friendly without us actually being friends. I just like having her around. She is competent and smart. In fact, she is actually good at the whole “being a mother” thing, which I have only managed to muddle through. I may not always agree with her, but she is not ever disagreeable. Most of all, she makes my family bearable to spend time with. I can’t thank her enough for that. She has forgiven my son for biting most of her children (I think the middle boy, who is rather shy and introverted, has never felt the impression of my son’s pearly whites). She is also calm and reasonable when my son starts to freak out over one silly thing or another (“Why is this with my toys?! THIS IS NOT MY TOY! WHO PUT IT WITH MY TOYS!!! WHY DID THEY DO THAT?!), which helps him get calm again.
The happy news is that my son did not bite anyone at this Christmas’s sleepover, which I hope sets a new president for future Christmases. My husband said that when he went over to pick Sweet Pea up, my stepmother pulled him aside to whisper that there had been “a little incident.”
“What was it?” I asked him, preparing for the worst.
“One of the other kids was playing with a toy that he wanted, so he screamed.”
“That’s it? No one got bit? No one got kicked? No one got hurt?”
“Nope. He screamed.”
“That hardly counts as an incident, then. It only counts as a scream.”
“Yeah, but you know how they are. I told her I’d talk to him about it, and said, Well, I just wanted to let you know, in that over-dramatic way she does. And then your dad goes, He was mostly good, but not all the way good.”
“They so don’t live in our world, do they?” I said with a sigh.
“No, not really. He was fine. He did fine. I think he had fun. But he was a little worn out from all the commotion, so I think he was ready to come home, too.”
So I am happy to report that the annual 3rd Night of Christmas Celebration of Cousins was a success this year, and despite my gloomy forecast no one got injured. I guess I like to prepare myself for the worst, but I don’t mind at all when it doesn’t happen.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
I need to boycott any and all events on my side of the family when my stepsister will not be there. When she and her family show up, it is easy to forget that my family is not actually fun. They are good people, mind you, but the kind of good people that bore you to tears.
Let’s take, for example, a typical gathering involving me, my two brothers who do not consider me to be the living dead, and my stepbrother. Mostly, they will all stare the TV watching what ever kind of sport is in season or maybe Fox News (which my dad watches when there is not a game that he cares about being broadcasted). Any conversation that takes place will happen during the commercials, when my father will try to convince me that America is in a state of decline and it is mostly my fault because sometimes I vote for Democrats. I will smile and make a comment about the weather, and my dad will say that no, I need to listen to him because…and then the game will come back on and the conversation will have to be continued during the next commercial.
Hours go by, and the pattern repeats at commercial intervals until I feel I have done my time and I can make an excuse to leave. But when my stepsister is there, the TV may not even be on. The kids are too loud and would drown out the TV, anyway. There are jokes and laughter and squeals and giggles. My family suddenly acts like one of those families on TV, the ones I always wish I were part of on those holidays when my stepsister and her brood can’t make the drive from Fort Worth. The thing is, my stepsister has also been known to vote for Democrats, yet the decline of civilization is somehow not her fault. She is a tall, no-nonsense looking woman with a wonderful talent for nonsense. Her tongue is razor sharp, and with it she can cut open the bubble of boring that generally surround my father’s house, letting all the good conversations and general mayhem (that we were all apparently secretly capable of all along) spill forth in a frothy foam of mirth.
My stepsister and I are not close by any means. We didn’t meet until we were adults and have never lived any closer than 4 and a half hours from each other. Our relationship is friendly without us actually being friends. I just like having her around. She is competent and smart. In fact, she is actually good at the whole “being a mother” thing, which I have only managed to muddle through. I may not always agree with her, but she is not ever disagreeable. Most of all, she makes my family bearable to spend time with. I can’t thank her enough for that. She has forgiven my son for biting most of her children (I think the middle boy, who is rather shy and introverted, has never felt the impression of my son’s pearly whites). She is also calm and reasonable when my son starts to freak out over one silly thing or another (“Why is this with my toys?! THIS IS NOT MY TOY! WHO PUT IT WITH MY TOYS!!! WHY DID THEY DO THAT?!), which helps him get calm again.
The happy news is that my son did not bite anyone at this Christmas’s sleepover, which I hope sets a new president for future Christmases. My husband said that when he went over to pick Sweet Pea up, my stepmother pulled him aside to whisper that there had been “a little incident.”
“What was it?” I asked him, preparing for the worst.
“One of the other kids was playing with a toy that he wanted, so he screamed.”
“That’s it? No one got bit? No one got kicked? No one got hurt?”
“Nope. He screamed.”
“That hardly counts as an incident, then. It only counts as a scream.”
“Yeah, but you know how they are. I told her I’d talk to him about it, and said, Well, I just wanted to let you know, in that over-dramatic way she does. And then your dad goes, He was mostly good, but not all the way good.”
“They so don’t live in our world, do they?” I said with a sigh.
“No, not really. He was fine. He did fine. I think he had fun. But he was a little worn out from all the commotion, so I think he was ready to come home, too.”
So I am happy to report that the annual 3rd Night of Christmas Celebration of Cousins was a success this year, and despite my gloomy forecast no one got injured. I guess I like to prepare myself for the worst, but I don’t mind at all when it doesn’t happen.
