Holiday. Celebrate.

I have officially given up Easter. I mean, not like I was all “Our Lord has risen, oh joy!” and now I’m “greed-ing card industry at work” but rather in the sense of I have given possession of the celebration rights back to my mom. See, holiday possession is a contentious issue in our family. Not at the level where we needed Jimmy Carter to mediate but, you know, close. As the calendar now stands, my mom has Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and now Easter; my aunt has Memorial, Labor, and Christmas Day, and Fourth of July. Birthdays are held in the celebrant’s home of origin if the participant is available; otherwise, they may not be acknowledged by any except the nuclear family. It’s very complicated and ownership of days has changed hands before, but it works for us. And now I am without.
See, when I first moved into my very own home, I petitioned to have a holiday. I figured this would really be the solidifying factor in the debate of whether or not I could legitimately call myself an adult, at least in my head: I don’t know that anyone else gave a rat turd. Anyway, since you don’t mention a problem without a solution in mind, I requested Easter. It’s just a food holiday to us (basically, we get together, eat, and go home) so I figured that it was completely within my grasp to manage. So three years ago, shortly after I moved in, I got my holiday. I made granny beans and taters, corn bread, and the family brought a chicken (since we all know I wasn’t making that). My cousin Sarah was home from her first year of college so we were all able to be together. It was nice, but boring: my house is small and I am without a regulation pool table or a large screen television (amenities that can be found at both my mom’s and my aunt’s house). We basically ate, and then sat around looking at each other. At least my cousin Adam was entertained: I try to have a decent computer and he was able to enjoy some top-of-the-line gaming action while everyone else tried to think of something to say. Or perhaps I am just stressing needlessly, still worrying over something that never mattered in the first place. That’s so unlike me.
Anyway, the year after that I was working on my national board certification: I had papers everywhere, my kitchen table was set up as an office, and as Easter approached, so did the deadline. I was not in a place to host the holiday. So, I passed it temporarily to my mom. I ran down there, ate, and scooted right back home to continue typing for three hours. Work that paid off in the end but, you know, still ass-busting. The year after that (also known as last year), I was away and coming back that Sunday so I obviously was not in a place to host then either. I took a little flack (well no: it was more in the line of joshing), but mom took it again and all was right with the world. Then I had this year.
I totally could have taken this holiday: I was home, had no big work thing going on, nothing to stop me from being the host. I even went and bought the bunny pan from William-Sonoma. I was gonna fancy me up a cake! But as I thought back to the first time I had Easter, it just didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel like making everyone else drive up here and then have nothing for anyone to do. I thought about the stories my mom and aunt tell of their growing up: they always went to Granny Walsh’s house for holidays. True, Granny Walsh’s house was the only one big enough to hold everyone who might show up but still: if you wanted a holiday, you ‘d have to stake your claim, break out, declare “This is my holiday! I am having it! You are invited! To my house! We will eat at three!” And I’m just not there. Yet.