Spending the Holidays with People I Want to Punch in the Throat

by Jen Mann

  Moving the Elf on the Shelf. Obviously.

  I am four years older than my brother, C.B., so you would think that I would remember a Christmas or two without him, but I don’t. I’m sitting here thinking of all the Christmas memories I can come up with, and they all involve him.

  It’s weird, because I’m pretty sure that even though he’s the favorite child, we celebrated before he came along. Didn’t we? I’m sure we did. Although I can’t find any pictures. Whenever C.B. and I complain that there aren’t many photos from different periods of our childhood, our parents tell us the camera was “broken” then. I guess the camera was broken at every Christmas until C.B. was born. How convenient.

  Wait! I do have a memory of a Christmas before C.B. Well, not quite a memory—more of a story that I’ve heard so many times from so many different family members that it has become a memory to me.

  It was the Christmas when I was two years old. In those days I was the only child and grandchild on both sides of the family, and so I was spoiled rotten (or so the general consensus of the story goes; my degree of “spoiled” actually depends upon who is telling me the story). Because I was the only child that year, December 25, 1974, was going to be a busy day for me, and I had several different holiday parties I was expected to attend. I was like a preschool socialite. My parents and my extended family had divided up my gifts between all the parties so I’d have something to open at each home. God forbid I arrived at Great-Aunt Arabella’s house with nothing to open. The horror! My Christmas would be absolutely ruined! (I told you my mother was an overachiever.)

  We got about halfway through the day and I was at the house of some great-aunt or second cousin, or something like that, when I apparently became Jenni-zilla. After opening gifts nonstop for hours I was finally through the first couple of waves. I sat by the Christmas tree, surrounded by piles of Barbie dolls, mounds of art supplies, stacks of books, tons of baby dolls, and more. I looked like some precious Norman Rockwell painting when I realized something was amiss. Looking around at my booty, I quickly understood that I’d been shortchanged. Something was missing, but what was it? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I started going through my list in my head:

  ☑ Barbies. (Check.)

  ☑ Art supplies. (Check.)

  ☑ Baby dolls—the one that poops and the one that cries. (Check, check.)

  ☑ Blocks. (Check.)

  ☑ Stuffed animals. (Check.)

  ☑ Books. (Check.)

  ☑ Underwear and socks. (Ugh. Check, check.)

  And then I knew.

  I sat up straight, glared at my parents, and demanded loudly: “Hey! Where’s my McDonald’s?”

  Earlier in the month I had made my wish list, and along with Barbies, art supplies, and a shit ton of other stuff, I had asked my parents for a kick-ass Playskool McDonald’s. It was not under the tree, and I was more than a little pissed off.

  Little did I know that my grandparents had actually bought the Playskool McDonald’s and it was waiting for me at the last party as sort of the grand finale of the day. They wanted to save the best for last and see my sweet little face erupt in pure joy and amazement at the miracle of Christmas gifts. Instead, according to family legend, I went nuclear on everyone. I demanded the McDonald’s and cried and threw myself on the floor in a fit of screams when it wasn’t immediately produced. This temper tantrum was not the reaction my parents had anticipated.

  My parents were horrified that their precious snowflake could be such a little bitch. I was promptly put in time-out. I’m not sure if I was able to open my McDonald’s that day, because I was such a little shit, but since I remember playing with it, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t denied too long. Surely by New Year’s I was living my dream of one day working at a McDonald’s.

  (Side note: I may not remember the day I received my McDonald’s, but I do remember playing with this toy. A lot. It had little people that didn’t have arms, so you had to shove their tray of Big Macs and fries in a slot under their chin. How appropriate, right? Who needs hands when you can snarf your food from a tray wedged under your neck? There was also a merry-go-round for the armless people to play on—which is just silly, since arms are pretty important on a merry-go-round. For those of you born after about 1990, let me explain what a merry-go-round is, because apparently your parents outlawed this fantastic invention. Fucking helicopter parents. A merry-go-round was a wonderful device that spun children around with absolutely no safety precautions whatsoever. The object of the game was to hold on tightly until the strength in your hands gave out and you went flying off the contraption, usually onto a concrete playground, or hold on until you puked all over the merry-go-round, which resulted in you being called names and being ostracized for the rest of the day. Either way you had a blast! You can thank your asshole parents for denying you this insanely fun toy. Ask them about teeter-totters, too. Ask them if they have trust issues from being the kid up top when their so-called friend hopped off the bottom seat and let them crash to the ground. Sure, a few kids got hurt now and then, but come on, you can barely see the scars on my face anymore! These kinds of playground toys just kept us on our toes and made us wily. Shit, by the time Adolpha and Gomer have kids, I’m guessing swings and slides will have been outlawed and will be nothing but distant memories, too.)

  Anyway, back to my McDonald’s pseudo-memory. This tale has been passed down over the years, and even family members who weren’t there love to tell me what an asshole I was that day. It’s practically become folklore in our family. It’s a cautionary tale told to pregnant cousins around a campfire. Who relishes recounting their favorite holiday story of the day their niece or granddaughter was a tyrannical, out-of-control toddler? My family, that’s who.

  When is it ever a good idea to say to your cousin, “Oh yeah, I heard about your breakdown. You’re famous in our house. My parents decided right then and there to delay having kids for another ten years or so”?

  This explains why I am six years older than my nearest cousin. It’s almost like our own Aesop’s fable.

  I became infamous. I became That Kid. The one who throws a massive fit on Christmas Day like a spoiled little brat.

  Now that I’m a mother (who watches so much TLC that I’ve become numb from seeing scores of bratty kids go ballistic every day), I can sympathize with my parents. They were trying to make the day extra special for me, but they didn’t really think it through and so they never saw the blowup coming. They thought that at two years old, I was a big girl and I could handle it. They thought that by spacing out the presents it wouldn’t be as overwhelming for me and in the end it would be more fun for me. They thought that scheduling three or four back-to-back dog-and-pony shows where I was the main attraction wouldn’t cause a problem—after all, I loved being the center of attention! Right? (Yeah, usually.) Smile for Great-Uncle Joe, Jenni! Show us your presents! (Too bad Great-Uncle Joe didn’t realize my parents didn’t have a working camera. He could have sent those pictures to us and then I’d know if this story is true.)

  What they forgot is that the age of two is when you finally start to notice that there are fun things inside the boxes that you enjoyed playing with last year. They forgot that two is when you can talk and have an opinion on what you want for Christmas. Plus, a two-year-old kid has a memory like an elephant. They forgot that two is when you seem mature enough to take on a day full of endless celebrations with no nap in sight and a seemingly unending supply of fun and presents, but you’re really not. They forgot that two is when you are smart enough to look around and realize what’s missing, but you don’t have the social skills to ask nicely and casually about your missing present. Instead, you behave like a raving lunatic junkie who hasn’t been fed anything all day except cheese and candy (because you refuse to put down your new presents and have a goddamned piece of turkey) and are looking for your next fix.

  To this day, if people in my extended family ask for a special gift for Christmas and they don’t get it, th
ey will announce loudly, “Hey! Where’s my McDonald’s?” and then laugh like maniacs.

  This story is so popular with my entire family that once a cousin bought his wife a beautiful piece of jewelry she’d been hinting for all year. He waited until all of the presents were opened. He could tell his wife was a little bummed when she realized her bracelet wasn’t under the tree like she’d hoped. She tried to put on a brave face, but he could tell she was disappointed. He went into the other room and returned with a crumpled McDonald’s bag (with the bracelet inside), threw it in her lap, and said, “Hey! Here’s your McDonald’s!”

  When I was nine I asked Santa for a dollhouse for Christmas. This was probably the last year I was going to believe in Santa, and my mother wanted to keep the magic alive for as long as possible, since C.B. was only five.

  I don’t know exactly how the conversation between my parents went, so I’m going to take some artistic license and assume it went something like this:

  Mom: Jenni wants a dollhouse from Santa this year. She’s beginning to ask a lot of questions. We need to make this happen or else she’ll tell C.B. that Santa isn’t real.

  Dad: Do you have any idea how much work a dollhouse is? I saw the Barbie Dream House on sale in Sunday’s paper—let’s just get her that.

  Mom: Absolutely not! That is not a dollhouse. That’s a piece of crap where that bimbo entertains her gay boyfriend in the rooftop hot tub.

  Dad: So, what are you thinking?

  Mom: When I was a girl, I always wanted an authentic wooden dollhouse with a couple of bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen, plus an attic nursery. I always wanted my dad to build me one, but he never had time.

  Dad: Is this your dream house or Jenni’s?

  Mom: Trust me. It’s what every little girl wants. Look, it’s not a big deal, we could ask my dad to do it, no problem.

  Dad: Excuse me? I am Jenni’s father. If anyone’s going to make her a dollhouse, it will be me!

  Mom: Well, you’re so busy with work, I just thought you’d prefer to have my dad make it. Plus, he’s so much better at—

  Dad: At what? Building things? I have power tools, you know. Your father and mother gave them to me as a wedding gift. I’m pretty sure they’re still in the garage in their boxes. I know how to build a stupid dollhouse! In fact, my dollhouse will kick every other dollhouse’s ass.

  Mom: I don’t think dollhouses have asses.

  Dad: Mine will have wallpaper and wall-to-wall shag carpet.

  Mom: I don’t think shag is popular anymore.

  Dad: I will even build a little doghouse that matches the big house. Just you wait and see!

  Mom: That sounds great. It’s just that it’s already October…you might want to start this weekend.

  Dad: Would you leave the planning to me, please? You get the furniture for the house and I’ll build it. I’ll have it done ahead of schedule and under budget! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a nap to take!

  For the next several weeks my dad spent many late nights at his office building my dollhouse. Because this was supposed to be a gift from Santa, my parents couldn’t tell us why our dad was working so late at night. My mom would let me and C.B. call him to say goodnight and we’d act like total shitheads. We’d cry and beg him to come home. We’d tell him about all the fun he was missing (as if missing my mother’s Taco Frito Surprise casserole was worth pining for—he dodged that bullet happily) and basically do whatever we could to make him feel like a terrible dad. (Side note: Are you catching on to the recurring theme here about my childhood? I was a bit of a whiny bitch who liked to ruin people’s nice surprises. I’m still that way. Don’t try to surprise me with anything. Tell me what you’re doing so I can be properly grateful and not act like a total douchebag.)

  Finally it was Christmas Eve, and I can only imagine the excitement my parents were experiencing that night when my dad crept through our quiet house with my dollhouse and put it in the living room, smack dab in front of the tree.

  Dad: Jenni is going to flip out when she sees this!

  Mom: Hmm, it seems like something is missing…

  Dad: No. It’s fine.

  Mom: No, I’m pretty sure it’s missing something.

  Dad: Okay. Yeah, I know. I didn’t quite get the doghouse done, but I figured Jenni might enjoy doing that one herself. [The doghouse was four bare plywood walls—no siding, not even a coat of paint—glued to a plywood base with a peaked plywood roof and a rounded opening for the dog.]

  Mom: Well, it seems like it’s more than just the doghouse….

  Dad: Right. The roof still needs some finishing touches. [The roof was made of tiny, individual wood shakes that needed to be glued on one at a time. An entire row was missing, and a few had gotten broken in transit from the office to the house. I’m assuming Dad ran out of shingles and couldn’t remember where he bought them in the first place, so he couldn’t find any that matched. Also, I’m sure he didn’t feel like he could ask his secretary to run out on Christmas Eve and find him another bag of shingles for just one row and a stupid doghouse.]

  Mom: And the porch…[It was supposed to be covered with tiny, individual paving stones that connected together and then were attached with wood glue. The porch was still plywood with no bricks at all.]

  Dad: Yeah, but who really notices a porch when you’ve got wall-to-wall carpeting? [The dollhouse did have wall-to-wall beige carpet and wallpaper throughout. These are my dad’s specialties even in real houses. In fact, there were different wallpaper patterns in each room that were remnants from the house we lived in. So the dollhouse kitchen matched my mother’s kitchen, the dollhouse master bedroom matched theirs, and so on.]

  Mom: I guess so…How are we going to tell Jenni that Santa didn’t get her dollhouse finished?

  Dad: What do you mean? It’s finished! It has carpet and wallpaper!

  Mom: Well, it’s not exactly finished. Santa would never call this finished.

  Dad: Fine. His elves went on strike before it could get done?

  Mom: Hardly.

  Dad: Y’know what? Screw Santa! Let’s just tell her the truth. I’ve worked my ass off on the damn thing and I’d appreciate a little credit! Why does he get all the glory? I’m the one who built this thing. I won’t even get a thank-you tomorrow. It will all be Santa, Santa, Santa!

  Mom: We can’t! She’ll never be able to keep it from C.B.!

  Dad: Well then, what do you suggest?

  Mom: I don’t know. Can’t you finish it now?

  Dad: Are you kidding me? It’s midnight. No. Forget it! Either she gets it like it is or she doesn’t get it at all.

  Mom: But all her other gifts from our family are furniture for this stupid house! Her Christmas will be ruined! [Another recurring theme in my childhood—the looming prospect of ruined Christmases.]

  Dad: Well, my entire month has been ruined working on this stupid fucking thing. You decide. I’ll leave it here or stick it back in the car. Choose now.

  The next morning C.B. and I flew down the stairs to see what Santa had brought us. My mother waited at the bottom of the stairs with her crappy camera (shocker—it was “out of the shop” that year, probably so she could photograph C.B.) to capture our reactions on film. (Remember, kids, these were the days before digital cameras or cameras on your phone—hell, these were the days before cell phones, forget phones that took pictures! That was some Star Trek shit when I was nine years old.) I saw my dollhouse and squealed with delight until my mother blinded me with the flash on the camera. Between my long flannel Little House on the Prairie–inspired nightgown and the flash, I almost fell down the stairs.

  I regained my footing as my mother yelled at me, “Go back and do it again, Jenni!”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Go back. And do it. Again,” she said slowly, like I had actually hit my head. “The flash didn’t go.”

  “Yes it did. It blinded me,” I whined. I kept looking at my dollhouse. I just wanted to get down there and see
it up close.

  “Well, even if it did, I’m pretty sure you blinked. It’s going to be a terrible picture. Start at the third stair from the top. Just come down again and give me a big ‘Wow!’ ” my mother said impatiently.

  “What about me, Mommy?” asked C.B.

  “I think you were okay, but Jenni ruined the picture and I want you both in it. Go up there with her.”

  C.B. and I trudged to the third stair from the top and turned and started down again.

  “Holy cow!” C.B. yelled, and pointed.

  “Ohhh…myyyy!” I exclaimed in slow motion.

  My mother shot a picture, advanced the film, shot another, advanced the film, and shot another.

  By now we were at the bottom of the stairs and bursting with excitement to see what Santa had left us.

  “I think you got it, dear,” my dad said, taking the camera from her hands.

  My mother actually did my father a favor that day. Because I was still seeing spots from all the flash photography, I barely noticed the dilapidated roof or the white-trash porch on my dollhouse. I was just so excited to get it, I didn’t care about the condition it was in.

  “Hey, Jenni, do you like your dollhouse?” my dad asked me later that day.

  “Oh yeah!” I replied.

  “I noticed it still needs some work to be done,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Not much, though. Santa told me he thought you might like to do it yourself—with my help, of course.”