Two years ago, my husband’s family came to spend Christmas with us here in Colorado.  To say I was a little stressed out before they arrived would be like saying childbirth is a little bit uncomfortable.  I spent the 32 hours before they walked in the door scrubbing, vacuuming and attempting to create a four-star hotel inside the more humble walls of this home.  I rearranged the linen closet into neat, color-coordinated piles.  My pantry, after about two hours of weeding, washing and sorting, gleamed in neat rows, arranged by food group, frequency of use and color.  I spent more time then I care to confess cleaning under my own bed, as though there was even a remote possibility that someone would crawl under there for a peek.  I stocked each bathroom with toiletries and extra toothbrushes and had fits of despair over the high-traffic stains on the carpet.  I bought celery.  Just in case someone had a craving. 

It could happen.

All this energetic trauma might suggest that I have in-laws like something out of a bad Ben Stiller movie.  But it’s not even close to true.  I can easily call my sister-in-law one of my closest friends despite the geographic distance between us. My father-in-law is a relaxed man far more interested in teasing Kurt than in any potential dust bunnies behind the couch.  The kids are hilarious together, guaranteed to leave a trail of disaster behind them as they run screaming through the house like little Huns armed with handfuls of crackers. 

It’s actually the fact that I like them so much that throws me into a frenzy of housekeeping.  I want to be impressive.  I want to measure up.  I’d like to be able to say, with totally false assurance, “Sure, we’ve got a jar of homemade honey butter right here, it’ll go nicely with the freshly baked cinnamon rolls I’m just pulling out of the oven.”  (Note to self- find local bakery for which to take credit)

This year, I am determined to relax, even if I have to take a Happy Pill or three to do it.  They arrive next week for an early Christmas and I haven’t even started on the pantry yet.  Instead of working myself up into a full froth of panic, tooth-brushing all the grout and floorboards, I’ve relinquished the heavy cleaning to a local housekeeper.   On a more intimate level though, I’m trying to embrace the idea that, maybe, I have nothing to prove.  We’re family, not just in theory, but by choice and that counts for more than a lot.  We don’t have to be close, but we are.  It’s been a harrowing year on all sides, but no one has been anything but kind, loving and optimistic.  My admiration has nothing to do with my sister-in-law’s amazing breakfast skills-though I certainly admire them- but instead with her strength of spirit.  As for me, I’m hopeful the support they’ve shown me is more about love than the pristine state of my closets or well-stocked freezer. 

Or celery.  (Though I can’t lie- it’s still on my grocery list.  You never know!)

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