Christmas Confession: I Made My Grandma Cry

One of the highlights of Christmas morning in our family is the silly gift - the one that leaves everyone in stitches on the family room floor. One year, we gave my scrawny 6-foot-130-pound brother a pack of wife beaters; he then posed, modeled and flexed for us in the tent-like tank top. Another year my three younger brothers got together and bought me Dating for Dummies. That was hysterical - for them. We still laugh when we talk about my dad's reaction as he unwrapped a Gandalf figurine from Burger King and giddily held up his cheap, plastic hero.

Just two years ago, my grandma opened a gift from my grandpa that I thought was hilarious. I have since succeeded at blocking out exactly what it was, but I do remember that it was a piece of extravagantly-decorated clothing. Whether it was "bedazzled," made out of fur, or hot pink, the bottom is that I thought it was a joke. It wasn't. It was something that she had actually picked out for herself. I don't know if it was because of my sugar buzz from the Reese's cups in my stocking, or if I was overcompensating for the two fun brothers who were missing that year, but I started laughing hard. Really hard. Other people chuckled, but no one laughed like I did. I laughed until my grandma walked out of the room crying.

It was like I had dropped a hydrogen bomb on living room: the room went silent and all its sweet, warm Christmasy feelings instantly vaporized. Mr. Bing Crosby had apparently missed the memo though, because he kept belting out his jolly tunes through the stereo. It would have been less uncomfortable if I had suddenly announced that I was pregnant. I followed Grandma to the bedroom where I apologized profusely. After she dried her eyes, we returned to the present-opening ceremonies. She said that everything was fine, and everyone pretended that she was right.

I could hardly wait to open the last present and choke down the last bite of the gooey-pecan-caramel-biscuits at brunch so that I could retreat in shame up to my room. But before I made it upstairs, my mom cornered me in the small damp garage, and began a well-justified interrogation: "What were you thinking? Have you apologized? Why do you treat my side of the family worse than dad's?" I put up no defenses, I made no excuses. Jack Bauer couldn't have done a better job at reducing his suspect into a state of such complete contrition.

I finally made it to my bedroom where I curled up on the floor and began to engage with my own over-wrought sense of guilt. I wondered what kind of 25-year-old makes her grandmother cry. I wondered how I - obedient daughter and doting granddaughter - had become Christmas' black hole. I could hear the faint melody of "Away in a Manger" still playing over the speakers downstairs and I thought about baby Jesus. The whole point of Christmas is to celebrate His birth, I told myself, and the whole point of His life is so that forgiveness can exist. But who could be forgiven for mocking the woman who bore and raised her own mother? Yet Christ's message, I argued back, is that I don't need to writhe on the bedroom floor for my mistakes. He can even erase my random outbursts of insensitivity.

Downstairs, I could hear family members laughing in the kitchen over turkey preparation. I started to feel like an unintentional Grinch realizing that I hadn't actually stopped Christmas from coming. My grandma has since forgiven me, and even though I don't think she has ever worn that unique piece of clothing, at Christmas I try to remember that it's possible to forgive myself too.