The Christmas Olympics
My mom never realize she’d entered the competition until it was already underway.
I believe I was in my late teens when I became fully aware of the Christmas situation. Yes, there had been other glimmers of this knowledge earlier in my life, but this was the first time I recognized it and thought, “I need to step in. This can’t continue.”
My lovely mother was standing in front of our Christmas tree, hands on her hips, a furrowed brow, and she kept saying over and over, “I’m just sick. Oh… I’m just sick.”
That was a phrase she used when she was beyond exasperated. Some of us might use stronger language, but for her it was always, “Kids, I’m just sick about this. Just sick!”
And this was usually followed up by, “Everyone out! Out!”
But this time, I didn’t leave.
“Mom, we can figure this out. Let me help you.”
And by “this” I mean the one strand of white twinkle lights that had burnt out in the middle of her beautifully decorated Christmas tree. And by decorated I mean hundreds of ornaments, followed by crystal icicles, followed by ribbon garland that wrapped the tree from top to bottom. Christmas was two days away and there was no time to completely redo it in order to replace the broken strand of lights. There were too many other tasks to check off the list.
“I don’t have time for this! I’m just sick,” she replied and walked out of the room.
As a child, my Christmases were magical. Truly. Some of my favorite childhood memories. But for my mom… well, she entered into the Christmas Olympics as a fledgling “memory maker” sandwiched between two heavyweight champions.
On one side was her own mother and no one could cook quite like her. Her holiday meals are still being talked about to this day. On the other side was her mother-in-law and nobody could decorate a house for Christmas like her. Her decorations are still being talked about and used to this day.
And there was my mom, a young bride, trying to prove herself in the Christmas memory-making competition she didn’t realize she was entering when she married my dad.
What started in the early years of sewing matching Christmas outfits for herself and her young children, making ornaments, and baking a few batches of Christmas cookies, eventually morphed into the following list of tasks she did to make Christmas magical for everyone else:
Year after year, the list grew longer. And my mom, caught in the Christmas Olympics, carried the weight of it all. The holidays often left her in a continuous state of stress and exhaustion. She could never fully enjoy the season herself, but she couldn’t stop. She kept adding more each year, trapped by the higher expectations of her own making.
For most of his career, my father was a naval aviator. Yes, a handsome fella with the Ray-Bans, the close-cropped hair, the flight jacket, and everything you might imagine.
Growing up near naval airbases, we spent a lot of time gathered outside the entrance to the base hangar, watching jets land on the airstrip while a military band played. American flags everywhere.
The jets carried home all the aviators, including my own dad, who had been out on aircraft carriers in some far-flung ocean for the past 9–12 months. My childhood felt like one continuous Fourth of July celebration.
Later in life, my parents moved to a home in the Puget Sound that overlooked a bay of mothballed aircraft carriers, which my dad could look out at and relive his “Top Gun-like” years.
My siblings and I were all living in different states by then—my sister and I were married, my brother was testing out relationships (before meeting his amazing wife)—and my mom, in an effort to get us all together without the conflicting schedules of the holidays, started hosting Fourth of July at their new home.
They didn’t have a big backyard with a pool and hot tub, or a boat to take us out on the Puget Sound, but every bit of the house and yard she did have was so thoughtfully prepped for our families.
Red geraniums in planters with blue and white petunias and a small American flag in each lined the walk to her front door. The tables on her deck were draped in red and white checkered tablecloths with vases of blue hydrangeas. Red, white, and blue foil garland twirled around the deck railing. Patriotic music played in the background.
The morning of the Fourth, we took the kids to the small carnival in town, and by lunch other friends and family had arrived at the house. My dad grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, my mom made her famous potato salad, and everyone else contributed something delicious. I always brought the Cowboy Caviar.
After lunch there was beach ball volleyball and water gun fights around the house. The sound of kids running and laughing. Babies learning to walk on the grass. Family photos during golden hour. Sparklers as the sun went down, and in the evening when it was fully dark we’d all curl up under blankets my mom had ready for us on the deck chairs. We’d snuggle with sleepy kiddos and watch the fireworks go off over the bay.
Those Fourth of July celebrations were some of my favorite and they were truly some of my mom’s best memory-making work. They became “her holiday.” She laughed and smiled along with us and never once did I hear her say, “I’m just sick about this.”
I often think about the difference between Christmas and the Fourth of July for my mom.
Yes, the Fourth of July still required her Martha Stewart-level hosting skills. She planned. She cooked. She decorated. She welcomed people into her home and made them feel loved.
The work didn't disappear. What disappeared were the expectations she had inherited.
No one in our family had claimed the Fourth of July. There wasn't her mother's cooking to measure herself against or her mother-in-law's decorations to live up to. She was free to create a celebration that felt like her.
It makes me wonder how many parts of my own life I've accepted simply because I thought that’s how they were supposed to be done. Expectations that seemed so normal I never stopped to ask whether they were actually mine.
Maybe that's one of the gifts of getting older.
Realizing we're allowed to create our own traditions, our own work, our own celebrations, and even our own lives.
Not that the traditions that came before were somehow wrong. They just weren’t ours.
Cheers,
Carrie
PS: If you’re looking for something to bring to a Fourth of July celebration, or any summer gathering for that matter, I highly recommend Cowboy Caviar. Definitely a crowd-pleaser.
Cowboy Caviar
This recipe has circled around my neighborhood dozens of times. I requested it from my neighbor who had it passed along to her by another neighbor. At get-togethers in our neck of the woods, this dip always shows up on an appetizer table. Introduce it into a new group and you will receive emails the following day with requests for the recipe. It couldn’t be simpler. It’s delicious and it’s pretty darn good for you. Obviously tortilla chips are its usual sidekick, but I’ve been known to scoop it up with sliced red bell peppers or spoon it over toast for breakfast.
1 12- or 15-ounce can black-eyed peas
1 12- or 15-ounce can corn kernels
2 avocados, cubed
½ cup chopped tomatoes
⅔ cup cilantro, chopped
⅔ cup green onions, chopped
¼ cup olive oil
¼ cup red wine vinegar
2 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 teaspoon cumin
¾ teaspoon salt
⅛ teaspoon pepper
Gently combine all of the ingredients in a medium-sized bowl. If possible, let sit at least half an hour before serving so the flavors have a chance to mingle. Set it out on an appetizer table and watch it disappear. Enjoy.
Yield: The perfect amount to accompany a bag of tortilla chips
Pro Tip: Mix all the ingredients together the night before or morning of your event, except the avocado. Mix in the avocado 30 minutes before serving and save yourself most of the prep so close to go-time.