It Was Near Christmas

In an earlier post, I said I would be bringing back some posts from the past, and this is one such piece. I wrote this one back when my kids were in elementary and middle school right after it happened. I think back on it often and it’s still just as funny and embarrassing as it was when it happened. Enjoy!

It was near Christmas. I know because the kids were making up lyrics to the tune of “The 12 Days of Christmas.” They were inserting lines like, “3 pickled beets, 2 potato chips and slaw.” They laughed hysterically every time they sang, “slaw.” I have to admit it was really funny, but I was in a hurry trying to get home to fix dinner, change clothes, and make a dessert for one of the 5000 Christmas parties I was expected to attend. I was too frantic to fully enjoy the subtle comic genius of my children.

It was near Christmas. I know because I had to get my paycheck in the bank before all the checks bounced. All those checks I wrote for all those trinkets, bits of junk that I hand out in truckloads at Christmastime because it’s expected. Do you detect a note of bitterness? It’s there.

It was near Christmas. I know because my nerves were at their bloody, raw edge. I was trying to control the blind-mad screaming that was rising in my throat as I pulled up to the ATM. I’ll be honest, I find it real difficult to put my hard-earned paycheck in a machine that I’m not sure I can trust.

It was near Christmas. I know because I had to put my check in the ATM, tomorrow would be too late. Santa and his reindeer were on my butt. Notice that I said Santa. Jesus wouldn’t do me that way. So, I pulled up to the machine and retrieved the deposit envelope. This was not my normal routine, so I was unsure about exactly what to do. I sealed up the envelope and turned to tell the Vienna Boys Choir to keep it down so I could concentrate. But they were at “5 onion rings” and had to finish it out. My head was spinning as I crammed the envelope in a slot.

It was near Christmas. I know because it didn’t seem strange to me that the envelope didn’t fit in the slot. I pushed and pushed then grabbed the pen and tried to force the envelope into the little slit. That didn’t work so I looked in the glove compartment for anything that I could use to force the envelope into the stupid machine. With the food-themed Christmas song screeching in my ears, party food ideas racing through my brain and wondering if I had pantyhose without runs, it never occurred to me that having to use a tool to make a deposit was a problem. It was only when the words on the ATM monitor started scrambling, and the lights started flickering did it begin to occur to me that I had done something wrong. My eyes frantically searched for some instruction, some bit of information to tell me what to do. That’s when I saw, “Insert Envelope Here.” Right under the the big, bold letters was a nice big opening where no cramming was necessary. I froze, I glitched, where did my paycheck go? Oh great! Now my check was sucked into the devil machine never to be found again! My checks would bounce, I’d go to debtor’s prison, my daughter would have to hire herself out as a scullery maid and my son would walk with that one little crutch and bravely say, “God bless us everyone.”

It was near Christmas. I know because I totally lost it. I started yelling at the machine from hell and pushing all of its buttons. What if the next person came to get out money and it gave them my check? I put my ATM card back in the machine and pushed more buttons and that’s when the machine totally shut down! It stole my card! I threw up my hands and screamed one last cry of defeat. In mid-scream, I opened my eyes and I saw the lens of the security camera in my face. That’s when I started that hysterical laughing that people do when it’s over, they’ve gone mad. I thought over the events of the past 3 minutes: the singing, the cramming, the chaos. I had just won the privilege of being the entertainment for the bank Christmas party. I could see them now with their punch and sausage balls yelling, “Hey Marge! Rewind it back to the part where she gets the screwdriver out of the glove compartment.”

It was near Christmas. I know because after I wiped the tears out of my eyes and could focus again, I saw the silent children staring at me with that look of fear and sadness on their faces. That look that they get when I yell at them for the mess that they had nothing to do with just so I can blow off steam. That happens a lot at Christmas. I slumped over the steering wheel and told them I wasn’t going to blame them. They were relieved. Oh, I wanted to blame them. I wanted to blame somebody. They were singing incredibly loud, but they didn’t have anything to do with the race against time, the lack of dessert, pantyhose with runs, and the 5000 parties I couldn’t say no to. And they certainly didn’t have anything to do with my insanity break.

As I pulled away from the ATM I realized that I had resisted the temptation to just blast my children out of the car for something they didn’t do. Doing that, the yelling, berating, and blaming your kids for your lack of preparation and your lack of self-control, is a nasty trait that was handed down to me by my ancestors. I was often the recipient of it and it hurt me.

It was near Christmas. And there at the ATM, I had resisted the temptation to be cruel to my kids. I won a tiny victory.

It was near Christmas and my husband went to the bank the next day and straightened the whole thing out and my check got deposited. I still feel weird when I go to the bank, though. It seems that everyone is on the verge of laughter when they see me and I imagine every whisper is someone saying, “Remember when she got the screwdriver out of the glove compartment?”

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