I used to feel guilty for being antisocial during the holidays. Now I encourage my kids to say 'no' to nonstop celebrations.
- My family's holiday tradition is being antisocial.
- I used to feel pressure to do lots of things with many people, but realized I need time for myself.
During the holidays, my family is often proudly antisocial. I'd even say it's one of our Christmas traditions. After we exchange presents around the tree, all I want to do is order books with my gift certificates and hunker down for a few days, replenishing my energy so I can survive another year as a working parent. If I don't get to chill during the holidays, when will I ever?
I used to feel guilty. When extended family pressured me to join in nonstop get-togethers, I felt like a Grinch to refuse. But I've gradually come to believe that I set limits because I truly love the holidays — and want to enjoy every minute of them. You shouldn't have to be self-sacrificing to please others. You should plan celebrations collaboratively and work for every family member's schedule, needs, and tastes — which, of course, is no small feat.
I learned my lesson when I overcommitted years ago
I remember the night the "no-overextending" rule became our modus operandi. Our first daughter was only about 6 months old, and a terrible sleeper. Our out-of-town relatives made reservations for 7:30 p.m. at a Mexican restaurant in Manhattan — more than an hour from our home by train. The baby was usually asleep by this hour, and I was drained from constant breastfeeding, but we bundled ourselves up and dragged ourselves into the city.
When we stepped into the restaurant, schmaltzy rock carols blared through the speakers. The mirrored walls seemed to explode with ornaments, tinsel, and flashing, swirling lights. Robotic snowmen and reindeer sleds zigzagged around, and Santas popped out of cuckoo clocks. The baby buried her face in my sweater and howled. I spent most of the meal nursing in a toilet stall because she couldn't focus on eating amid the hubbub of the restaurant.
I didn't get to exchange a single word with the family members who had traveled so far to see us. "Why don't you take your enchilada plate with you into the bathroom?" one relative suggested, trying to be helpful. "You're not going to finish it out here."
When we apologetically tried to slip out before dessert, the whole table, which was quite deep into their wine, started protesting, "No! Don't leave us!" One relative seemed to take offense at our departure. We caved to the pressure and stayed for another another half hour.
Now I focus on my family's needs
After that year, I was probably a bit too self-centered, refusing to show up at any celebration that wasn't 100% kid-focused. Eventually, I loosened up and tried to meet my family halfway; we've all learned to make compromises.
This year, for example, I asked my aunt and uncle if we could get matinee "Rockette Christmas Spectacular" tickets to accommodate my 3-year-old's bedtime. My relatives preferred to see a show before dinner. I agreed to meet for the 5 p.m. performance, but let my family know that we wouldn't be available for a sit-down Italian dinner afterward. We preferred to grab a pizza at Penn Station while waiting for our train home so everyone could get to bed and avoid meltdowns the next day.
The most meaningful holiday get-togethers happen when we take care of ourselves, when we're really present for each other. I want my kids to listen to the inner voice that either tells them to turn up the music and dance with their cousin Fred — or turn off the music and shut the door. Both choices are fine with me.