Christmas Nightmare

I have given it a day before posting the Christmas nightmare. Mama was up at 4 AM (she never needs sleep..like a Vampire.) The day started as terribly as Christmas Eve had been: “You don’t have any caffeinated coffee”. “I don’t know how you stand it so cold in here all of the time.”, “I had to be up at 4 so I could cook breakfast. These delightful conversation starters were followed by her not telling me that my baby was awake, so I missed him seeing his gifts for the first time (Mama: “I know how you love your sleep.) I wasn’t asleep, I was in my room avoiding criticism.

The kids had an amazing time and loved their gifts. I opened mine and oh my, what a disaster. Mama has this thing she does where she buys me clothes several sizes too big to imply that I am fat. (She is larger than me.) So everything she bought was an extra large or an XXL, even though I wear a medium. Mama also bought me orange clothes, which, she knows is a color that does not flatter my shade of red hair. I didn’t flinch. I just said “Thank you” and moved on. She bought me a camera, but not the one I asked for (which was inexpensive.) Mama: “Your brother says that consumer reports rated this one the best. And you have to keep it in a case, not just throw it around like you do everything else.”

We ate our breakfast casserole and my son complained that he wouldn’t be getting a real Christmas dinner. That’s when all Hell broke loose. My ex called and asked for the kids early because he was cooking at his girlfriend’s parents’ home. I thought it was a fabulous idea because it meant my kids had a chance for a normal Christmas Dinner. (My parents did not see it that way, at all.)

I don’t know what happened, but somewhere between the “You’re a piece of crap” messages, the fact my kids had to leave me to have a normal day and the stress of a holiday, I broke down. I told my parents it was time for them to go and I packed up all their food and put it in their car. I am proud of myself for being calm while Mama screamed and yelled. The baby hid under a pillow on the sofa and my oldest laid in the floor and cried. It was beyond disturbing to see my babies in such distress. I took a tranquilizer and went to bed to sleep for 5 hours. I have not spoken to them since that incident. My Dad keeps calling me, but I really don’t want to talk. I wish I had something funny to write or something funny to say, but being the family scape goat for passive-aggressive Moms just sucks. No sugar-coating that bitter pill. I told her to take her resentment to someone else on the next holiday, I want no part of it.

Don’t forget the Turkey!

So, I get a call from Mama while I am knee-deep in work drama. I  work in a crisis-oriented field and my Mama hasn’t figured out I don’t have time to chit-chat all day. Anyway, she calls to tell me she has left the Baby’s “Turkey paper” on the counter and has left a note for me.  The “Baby” is my 2 almost 3 year old son. Apparently, the Baby’s preschool has started giving homework and I have neglected my Turkey assignment. 

I wake up at 5 AM in the morning, get my sons ready and go to work by 7:15 AM. I work all day, pick up the kids at different daycare/afterschool programs and maybe get home by 6:15 PM. This night, I get to go to Hobby Lobby to let the baby pick out things to decorate his turkey paper. So, I get home at 7:15 after shopping for “Turkey Monkeys” and stopping st Firehouse for subs. Turkey Monkeys are what the Baby chose to decorate his decorate his turkey. For $4 I bought 8 glittery monkeys and assorted bananas for my 2 year old to stick on a poorly drawn turkey paper.

The note from Mama attached states: Please try not to forget to help the Baby decorate his Turkey. His teacher said she gave this to you several weeks ago. He was the only child in the class who didn’t decorate a pumpkin! (This was back in October, but serves as a good jolt when she needs it.)

This is a typical Mama Drama and contains all the essential elements:

1. My predictable inadequacy.

2. A reference to an undiagnosed form of  “Dumbass Daughter Dementia” that my Mama thinks prevents me from remembering anything.

3. A big, heaping helping of guilt. Homecooked by Mama’s love.

4. A dramatic gesture. (In this case, she drove to my house to leave the paper on the counter versus leaving it in his cubby at school.)

5. Some measure of her Goodness by which we may contrast my Badness.

I wonder how my children will ever survive me. The trauma of an inadequate Mama!