The Real Christmas Fruit Cake

This piece orriginally ran December 9, 2007, but Christmas specials recycle every year so why not blogs?

We bought an artificial tree this year. Up until now, I had staunchly vowed never to buy a fake tree. I thought plastic trees were as evil as Charlie Brown and Linus thought they were in the Christmas special. I had also vowed never to eat fruit cake.

In both cases, I mocked what I did not understand. As an adult, I’ve actually tasted good fruit cake. It was homemade, scrumptious and left me wanting more. When we assembled the tree and I had a similar epiphany. I didn’t have to sweep half the branches out the door from unpacking it. I wouldn’t have to water it! I didn’t have to crawl underneath, pine sap dripping on me to screw the trunk into the base. I wouldn’t have to water it! The lights were already on it. I wouldn’t have to water it! So I was in an instant perfect Christmas mood and I didn’t have to water it.

Putting on classical Christmas music, I brought up the ornaments from the basement, anticipating, no savoring, a “to be treasured family moment.” Sighing happily, my brain exploded with a holiday list. “We’ll decorate the tree and set up the crèche and take a picture all in our Christmas sweaters and bake cookies…” I had briefly channeled Martha Stewart.

It lasted exactly five minutes and forty three seconds.

After the initial rush of opening boxes and “oohing” at beautiful ornaments had waned, the children began to reassert their personalities.

With eighteen hands reaching into boxes all at the same time, there was a lot of gentle patient nudging. I smiled benevolently and turned the music up a notch. In retrospect, now would have been a good time to sip a bit of Christmas wine.

Ornament placement became a problem. One child started snatching up prime locations on the tree like they were Boardwalk and Park Place. Then there was the “She got all the good ornaments!” issue. A daughter had taken to stockpiling all of the choice pieces. She was bartering with the squatter.

It had to happen. Someone was on a step ladder, someone was hanging a glass ball using a paperclip as a hook, someone wanted their silver reindeer in front of a light, somehow somebody hit the ornament the wrong way and ...“Crash.”

There were great accusations and denials as to who hung the now crushed glass green ball. Clearing out its remains jostled the wiring. Then of course the lights on the tree wouldn’t light on one side. Wrestling with the tree caused a few more ornaments to fall. I turned off the radio with a bit of a sigh. My Christmas mood was fading.

Meanwhile, on the floor disassembling the nativity scene, three not so wise ones were arguing over who got to play with the sheep and who got stuck with the cow. A smug looking older sibling opted to appear pious by hanging only angels, while lecturing on what was “appropriate.” The squabbles lead to two children stomping off. The oldest used the commotion to bug out to play Nintendo, followed quickly by his sister. That left the adults, two toddlers, the baby and one overly helpful kindergartner who only wanted to use the step ladder.

“That’s enough!” I yelled.

I turned on the radio, finding the All Christmas all the time station. “I’m putting on this Season's schmaltziness tunes. Come back here all of you! That means YOU! We’re going to have a Christmas moment and you will feel maudlin sentiment about your family even if I have to play “Christmas Shoes” to get it!”

Five seconds of silence and then recognizing the clear and present danger that loomed, from all directions they came running.

“Mom! I’m coming. Look, I brought our stockings!”

“I’m playing Holly Jolly Christmas on my Trombone!”

“Me next, I’ll do Jingle Bells on the piano.”

“Hey Dad, can we hang lights outside? Please?”

Within minutes, all was calm, all was bright. The tree sparkled, some of the kids were outside trimming the house and a memory had been created. Sweeping up the last of the broken pieces, I looked over at the baby, asleep in her bouncer and the toddlers who are busy playing with some bells. The nativity scene has a hot wheel and a reindeer added to it and is missing a sheep. Martha Stewart wouldn’t approve but I do. My husband brought me a glass of Christmas wine.

“There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays…” played on the radio.
Maybe I’m pushing it if I tell them this year I think we should make homemade fruit cake.

Extreeme Home Makeover Blowout Party

Two days before Christmas, I impulsively picked up a Gingerbread House at our favorite bakery. It was gorgeous and filled with candy. I knew I'd be UBER Aunt if I showed up at my brother's house with this beauty in tow.

It seemed like the perfect plan. I'd load the Truck with all the kiddos, my husband would shop and finish up Christmas and we'd get in a visit and all would be happy and right with the world. I called my brother and set the plan in motion.

A brief hic-up in the plan, my toddler was sleeping. We elected to put our oldest son in charge as a babysitter at home. He could use the computer as long as she slept. Blitzkrieg or Civilizations IV heaven awaited. He was thrilled.

We get ten miles and I notice, the Suburban needed gas. No problem, we stopped to fill it up.

We get ten more miles. The kids want food.

I decide to splurge and get them the happy meals they clamored for, if only to make the hour drive to Uncle J's a bit more peaceful.

Alas, I considered running in to the bathroom, but denied myself for fear others would immediately decide they needed to go.

Christmas carols on the radio and spirits high, we were off.

Forty five minutes later, we're about a turn and an exit from my brother's when suddenly the car feels like it's dragging its chasse. It felt like we had hit a deer and were dragging the body, even though I have never hit a deer and wouldn't know what dragging a body of a large mammal under the car would feel like. I knew it wasn't good.

Pulling over as quickly as possible and as far off the road as possible, I briefed the kids. I'm going to check the car. "I don't care if I get hit, DON'T GET OUT OF THE CAR!"

"What do we do if you get hit?" My oldest asked. I handed her the cell phone, suddenly, she was fine with the world. "Call 911." I explained. The rear tire was not just flat, it was shredded. These were only one year old. Still, looking at the tire remains, I was grateful it was the rear that had blown and not the front or this could have been a very unhappy story. Calling Triple A, Calling Uncle J, Calling husband, we now could only wait for the cavalry to come. I began to regret not stopping in the McDonalds and wishing I hadn't ordered such a large Diet Coke.

The phone rings. Is it Triple A, my husband, my brother? No. It's my son.
"Rita needs a change."
"And?"
"Ohhhhhh." I hang up.

Now today was also my daughter's 10th birthday and she had received a Nintendo GS. The entire episode had virtually escaped her notice until the battery started to falter. "Can't I charge it on your car?" She asked."No. I need to keep the phone charged.""Why?""Have you not noticed that we're not moving?""Why aren't we moving?"She was spared the rant that would have followed by the timely rescue of my brother in his van. He took four of the six I had with me, leaving the baby and my oldest as an assistant.

She was outraged. "I wanted to go with Uncle J. He has an X-Box 360. She sulked the rest of the time until Dad showed up. At this point, the rain began falling practically sideways. The tow truck man arrived. I get a text message from my son. "YOU OWE ME BIG."

The tow truck guy and my husband spent the better part of an hour thumbing through the car manual to locate the tool kit necessary to release the spare. Finally, the tire replaced, my husband heads back home to relieve our son of his duties.

Finally, we arrived to present the gorgeous cake. On their table was a home made gingerbread house the kids had decorated themselves. I suddenly feel like the worst Aunt in history for presenting a perfect Martha Stewart cake to usurp the homespun pride that the kids had over their creation. However, kids are great at not noticing when adults have their egos punctured. "Hey Aunt Sherry, can I have some?" My nephew set about picking at the chocolate door. He's my kind of kid.

I should point out that once we arrived at my brother's, we all jammed on the X-Box 360 rock star and got booed off the stage twice. My older girl forgave me but the birthday girl was miffed, as she still couldn't charge her Nintendo GS, she seemed to take it personally that Uncle J didn't have an adapter for her needs. He's in computers after all. Still, I told her, it was a blow out party. She didn't appreciate the humor.

Driving home to serve birthday cake, it felt like everything had happened perfectly anyway to me. I'd seen my brother and his family, the house was a hit, we made it back safely and I found out I can jam with the Pretenders as long as I do vocals and not guitar. Now I just have to let my husband know, I want an Xbox 360 for Christmas.