My son David sat across from me, a faint smile on his face.
Then he casually dropped the words that shattered my Christmas.
“Mom, Kate wants to host Christmas this year.”
My hands, usually so steady, trembled as I picked up my teacup.
Host Christmas?
In *her* modern, minimalist house?
Not in *my* home, where decades of cherished memories lived in every ornament and cookie crumb.
“But David,” I started, my voice thin, “we always host.”
“It’s tradition.”
He sighed, a familiar, weary sound.
“Kate’s excited, Mom. She wants to start her own traditions.”
Start her own? As if mine were suddenly obsolete.
I felt a cold dread creeping into my heart.
This wasn’t just about a change of venue.
This was about me.
My role.
My family.
“This house,” I gestured around my living room, filled with the faint scent of pine and cinnamon, “is Christmas.”
David shifted uncomfortably.
“Traditions can evolve, Mom,” he said softly.
Evolve, he said.
It sounded like “be replaced.”
I felt a sharp stab of betrayal.
He left soon after, a vague promise of “talking to Kate” hanging in the air.
But the damage was done.
My Christmas was under attack.
My son, my own son, seemed to be on the other side.
What I didn’t know was how deep this betrayal truly ran.
It was only just beginning.
Meanwhile, across town, in her perfectly coordinated home, Kate was practically vibrating with excitement.
“This Christmas is going to be epic!” she told her best friend, Jenna, holding up a Pinterest-perfect vision board.
Sam, my eight-year-old grandson, sat on the floor, coloring.
Kate, bless her heart, was an event planner by trade.
She had grand plans for everything.
From a gourmet feast to a snow-themed wonderland.
Jenna, ever the pragmatist, raised an eyebrow.
“Are you sure Anna’s on board with all this, Kate?” she asked.
“She’s pretty traditional, you know.”
Kate waved her hand dismissively.
“Oh, Anna will love it!” she insisted.
“New traditions, a fresh start. What’s not to love?”
But a flicker of doubt crossed her face.
She wanted Anna’s approval, deep down.
She just didn’t want to admit it.
Sam looked up from his drawing.
“I just want everyone to be happy,” he mumbled.
His innocent words were a tiny pinprick of anxiety for Kate.
She knew she needed Anna’s input, but her pride was getting in the way.
Later that week, I met my friend Betty at our usual café.
Christmas carols played softly in the background, a stark contrast to the turmoil in my soul.
“She wants to host Christmas,” I blurted out, without preamble.
Betty, wise and kind, just listened.
I poured out my fears.
My feeling of being pushed aside.
My anger at David for not defending my place.
“It feels like she’s trying to erase me,” I confessed, my voice trembling.
Betty reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Anna,” she said gently, “perhaps Kate isn’t trying to replace you.”
“Maybe she’s trying to impress you.”
Her words hit me.
Impress me?
The thought had never crossed my mind.
I had been so consumed by my own hurt, my own fear of losing control.
But Betty was right.
Kate often seemed insecure around me.
Always trying too hard.
A mix of fear and sadness still clung to me.
Losing my place, my relevance.
It felt like a void opening up.
But Betty’s words sparked a tiny, unwelcome thought.
Could I be wrong about Kate?
No, I decided. I needed to confront her.
I had to stand my ground.
I resolved to reach out to Kate, but not to offer olive branches.
I would express my feelings.
My concerns.
My absolute need for things to remain *my* way.
That evening, back at Kate’s house, Christmas lights glowed outside.
Inside, Kate was excitedly showing David her detailed plans for the Christmas Eve dinner.
“It’s going to be a winter wonderland theme!” she declared.
She pointed to a drawing of elegant, modern decorations.
David looked at the plans, then at Kate.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Mom might feel a little… left out.”
Kate bristled.
“Left out? I’m inviting her! This is about making new memories, David!”
“Why is she always so resistant to change?”
David tried to explain.
“It’s not about resisting change, Kate. It’s about her traditions. Her feelings.”
“She just feels unappreciated sometimes.”
Kate insisted she could do this without Anna’s input.
Her confidence, or perhaps her insecurity, shone through.
“I want to make this Christmas special,” she said, her voice firm.
“I want to make *my* mark.”
David looked apprehensive.
He knew his mother better than that.
He knew her traditions ran deep, like the roots of an ancient tree.
But he agreed to help, his worry palpable.
“We need a guest list,” Kate said, pulling out a tablet.
“I’ve been thinking about some of your dad’s cousins,” she added casually.
My alarm bells started ringing right then.
This was another hint of the grand scale Kate was envisioning.
A scale that would dwarf anything I had ever done.
A scale that felt like a direct assault on my simple, cherished Christmases.
I thought I had found the betrayal then.
I was wrong.
What I discovered next made my hands go cold.
The following afternoon, I was in my kitchen, preparing my traditional Christmas cookies.
The smell of ginger and cloves usually soothed me.
But today, my mind was a whirlwind of worry.
Sam came in, flour on his nose, holding a small mixing bowl.
“Grandma, can I help you make gingerbread men?” he asked, his eyes wide.
I usually loved baking with Sam.
It was one of *our* traditions.
But I was distracted.
Consumed by the idea of Kate’s “epic” Christmas.
“Not now, sweetheart,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.
“Grandma’s busy.”
Sam’s face fell.
He looked confused, hurt.
He hadn’t done anything wrong.
My negativity was affecting him.
“Grandma,” he said quietly, “why can’t we do both types of Christmas?”
“My mom’s Christmas and your Christmas?”
His innocent question was a punch to my gut.
Why not both?
The simplicity of it.
It cut through my resentment and fear.
I looked at Sam, really looked at him.
His small face, mirroring my own stress.
My heart softened.
My anger, my fear, was hurting the one person I loved most.
I pulled him into a hug.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” I whispered.
“Let’s make gingerbread men. Right now.”
I started to see a glimmer of Sam’s perspective.
Maybe there was a way to share.
Maybe I didn’t have to lose everything.
But the thought still felt alien.
Later, I contemplated reaching out to Kate.
That night, David and Kate came over for dinner.
The tension in the air was so thick, you could almost cut it with a knife.
I tried to bring up Christmas plans delicately.
“So, Kate, what were you thinking for Christmas dinner?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
Kate, however, had no subtlety.
“Oh, Grandma Anna,” she chirped, using a tone that always made me feel old and irrelevant.
“I’ve already got it all mapped out! We’re doing a modern twist on a classic feast.”
She started rattling off dishes I’d never heard of.
David cleared his throat, trying to interject.
“Kate, maybe we should hear what Mom was thinking…”
But Kate just kept going, pulling out pictures on her phone.
“And for the appetizers, I found this amazing caterer for artisanal charcuterie!”
My blood ran cold.
Artisanal charcuterie?
What happened to my homemade deviled eggs and my famous oyster casserole?
It was clear my input wasn’t just unwanted; it was irrelevant.
I sat in silence, my fork clinking against my plate.
The words I wanted to say died in my throat.
My frustration enveloped the entire meal.
I felt a wave of nausea.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, pushing back my chair.
I left the table, my heart pounding, and went straight to my bedroom.
The audacity. The sheer disrespect.
David followed me a moment later.
He found me sitting on the edge of my bed, surrounded by my old Christmas photos.
The ones with David as a boy, my late husband, my parents.
All the Christmases I had lovingly created.
“Mom,” David began, his voice filled with concern.
“She didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Of course she did!” I retorted, tears welling up.
“She wants to take over everything! She wants to erase me!”
I showed him an old ornament, handmade by my father decades ago.
It triggered a flood of memories, painful and sweet.
“This is what Christmas is, David,” I whispered, clutching the fragile decoration.
“It’s memories. It’s tradition.”
“I just feel so unappreciated,” I confessed, my voice raw with vulnerability.
“Like my whole life’s work, my whole family, is just being swept aside.”
David sat beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder.
He finally understood the depth of my feelings.
“Mom, you’re not being replaced,” he said, his voice firm.
“You’re the matriarch. That won’t change.”
“I’ll talk to Kate. I promise I’ll help bridge this gap.”
It was a powerful moment of vulnerability, of a mother and son truly connecting.
He offered a peace treaty, a truce.
I clung to it like a lifeline.
It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
Back at Kate’s, surrounded by fabric swatches and glitter, Jenna was helping her plan.
Sam, sensing the underlying tension, kept quiet.
“Grandma Anna always makes the best fudge,” Sam piped up suddenly.
“Remember that time she made a whole mountain of it?”
Jenna rolled her eyes good-naturedly.
“Come on, Sam. Your mom’s got new ideas now.”
“We’re moving forward.”
But Sam, surprisingly, stood his ground.
“But Grandma’s fudge is special,” he insisted.
“And she used to tell the best stories about Christmas elves.”
He shared a heartfelt story about one of my elaborate Christmas traditions from years ago.
Kate, who had been focused on a floral arrangement, paused.
Sam’s innocent words, the pure longing in his voice, hit her.
She saw a fleeting image of me, laughing, surrounded by cookies and stories.
She began to reconsider her approach.
A moment of tension dissipated, replaced by a slight unease.
Sam’s plea resonated more than she cared to admit.
It made her feel guilty, selfish even.
That was when she realized what she needed to do.
She had to invite Anna to be part of the planning.
Not just as a guest.
But as a contributor.
The next morning, I was in my kitchen, baking again.
The aroma of cinnamon filled the air, a small comfort.
Sam skipped in, holding a fancy envelope.
“Grandma! Mommy sent you this!”
It was an invitation.
To a “Christmas Collaboration Meeting” at Kate’s house.
My heart fluttered between resentment and a tiny spark of hope.
This felt like a token gesture.
“I think she really wants you there, Grandma,” Sam said, looking earnest.
“She looked really worried when she gave it to me.”
His belief in Kate’s genuine intentions made me pause.
Could it be true?
A conflict of emotions swirled within me.
My pride told me to refuse.
My longing for my family, for my place, urged me to go.
I reluctantly agreed to consider it.
I called Betty, needing advice.
“She invited me to a ‘collaboration meeting’,” I told her, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“It’s probably just a formality.”
Betty, ever the calm voice of reason, disagreed.
“Anna, this is your chance,” she said.
“Not to fight, but to connect. To compromise.”
“You don’t have to lose your traditions. You can share them.”
Her words stirred an inner reflection.
Could I share without giving up everything?
Could I blend my classic charm with Kate’s modern flair?
It felt like a monumental task.
Encouraged, but still wary, I decided to attend.
But I wasn’t going in without a plan.
I would influence the menu.
My deviled eggs *would* be there.
I called Kate.
“I’ll be there,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
A moment of silence on the other end.
Then Kate’s excited voice. “Wonderful, Anna! See you then!”
I arrived at Kate’s house, which was already decorated with a shimmering, almost clinical, perfection.
Kate greeted me with an overly enthusiastic hug.
We sat at her gleaming dining table, plans spread out before us.
The air was thick with initial tension.
“So,” Kate began, “I thought we could go over the menu first.”
I nodded, my guard up.
She showed me a dish she called “Deconstructed Cranberry Relish.”
I almost choked.
“Well,” I said, trying to be diplomatic, “my traditional cranberry sauce has been a family favorite for generations.”
“It’s simple. Classic.”
Kate looked at me, a flicker of insecurity in her eyes.
“I really want us to work together, Anna,” she admitted softly.
That honesty, that small crack in her polished facade, surprised me.
It wasn’t a challenge.
It was an olive branch.
An uneasy truce began to form.
We grudgingly agreed to collaborate.
My deviled eggs, my oyster casserole, and even my famous fudge would have a place.
Alongside her gourmet, deconstructed creations.
Exchanged ideas generated mixed feelings.
It felt like a compromise, but not a defeat.
Yet, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I was simply allowing my things to be “included” in her grand vision.
I was still an outsider looking in.
A few days later, we embarked on a family outing to the community holiday fair.
Anna, Kate, David, and Sam.
The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine and roasting chestnuts.
It felt like an attempt at normalcy.
Kate immediately gravitated towards sleek, modern decorations.
Glimmering silver and minimalist angels.
I, of course, was drawn to the vintage section.
Hand-painted glass ornaments, intricate wooden figures.
“Look, Grandma!” Sam shouted, holding up a small, slightly crooked gingerbread man ornament.
It looked just like the ones we baked.
Kate smiled. “That’s adorable, Sam.”
I smiled too.
We started looking for things that could blend.
A rustic wreath adorned with subtle modern lights.
An antique sleigh bell next to a contemporary glass snowflake.
It seemed impossible, yet we found common ground.
Initial conflict over aesthetics gave way to laughter.
We found ourselves joking about the absurdly oversized reindeer or the singing Santa.
The evening ended with a shared moment of joy, bridging gaps we thought were uncrossable.
We left the fair closer, but still unsure of the path ahead.
The week leading up to Christmas was a flurry of activity in my kitchen.
I was cooking a storm, preparing all my traditional dishes for the family.
David came in, offering to help peel potatoes.
“Mom, you look exhausted,” he said, noticing my weary face.
Kate’s plans had grown exponentially.
More distant relatives were coming (Twist 1 again!).
More elaborate decorations.
More *everything*.
I felt overwhelmed, a small boat caught in a rising tide.
“It’s just so much, David,” I confessed.
“I feel like I’m drowning in all of it. In *her* plans.”
“Like my Christmas is just a tiny side dish to her main event.”
David stopped peeling, turning to face me.
“Mom, listen to me,” he said, his eyes earnest.
“You’ll always be part of Christmas. *Your* Christmas is in every single one of us.”
“In every memory, every recipe.”
It was an emotional bonding moment, reflecting a deep hope.
He didn’t say Kate’s plans weren’t important.
He just affirmed *mine*.
I grasped the support from David, a much-needed anchor.
Later that evening, at Kate’s home, the guest list was the topic of discussion.
It had grown to include distant cousins, college friends, and even some neighbors.
“David,” Kate said, looking flustered, “Grandma Sue just called. She’s bringing her entire bridge club!”
David paled.
“Kate, that’s almost fifty people,” he said, his voice strained.
“Mom’s never hosted more than twenty.”
He pointed out that these excessive invites could overwhelm Anna.
It could shatter the fragile peace we had just established.
Kate’s anxiety rose.
She had just wanted to make it special.
To include everyone.
But she realized this could seriously damage Anna’s trust.
She felt torn and heavy-hearted.
She had crossed a line, pushing too far.
A confrontation loomed, a storm gathering on the horizon.
And literally, a storm was brewing outside.
The next day, Anna, David, and Kate met at the park near my house.
The idea was to finalize guest arrangements and logistics.
But as we talked, the sky darkened, and thick snowflakes began to fall.
A surprise snowstorm hit, quickly blanketing the park.
We huddled under a gazebo, shivering.
The unexpected weather mirrored our inner turmoil.
Our fidgeting led to a discussion about personal boundaries.
Kate was still pushing for some grand outdoor activity she’d planned.
I, already on edge about the guest list, lashed out.
“Kate, we can’t have a sleigh ride with this many people, in a blizzard!” I snapped.
“This is too much! You’re trying to do too much!”
Kate’s face flushed. “I’m just trying to make it memorable, Anna!”
David stepped between us, trying to mediate.
“Both of you, please! This isn’t helping.”
But the argument escalated between Kate and me.
Hurt feelings erupted, fueled by the cold and the stress.
We parted ways in anger, the snow falling heavily around us.
Separation and confusion ensued.
I felt a wave of despair.
My Christmas was truly lost now.
Back in my living room, the snowstorm raged outside.
The power flickered, then died, plunging the house into darkness.
I sat by the window, feeling utterly defeated.
This was it. No Christmas.
Sam, however, seemed unfazed by the darkness.
He came and sat beside me, wrapping a blanket around us.
“Grandma,” he said, “don’t be sad. This is still Christmas.”
“We’ll just have a cozy, dark Christmas.”
He then revealed his own secret.
“I invited some of my friends over,” he confessed, his voice a little shaky.
“For a snow day party. Before the storm hit.”
My heart sank further. More chaos.
But then, as I looked at his innocent, hopeful face, my heart softened.
He wasn’t trying to add to the stress.
He was trying to create joy.
He revealed that he wanted a simple Christmas, just with family.
My fears that I had no place in Christmas anymore began to recede.
Sam’s desire for connection, for simplicity, was a stark contrast to the adult drama.
I realized that Christmas wasn’t about control or perfection.
It was about connection.
I looked at the flickering candlelight, a sudden idea sparking within me.
I devised a plan to win back the spirit of Christmas, not by fighting Kate, but by embracing the unexpected.
I knew exactly who to call.
I would invite help from unexpected sources.
Christmas Eve arrived, chaotic and beautiful.
The snow had stopped, but the power was still out in many areas.
I arrived at Kate’s house, not empty-handed.
I brought my grandmother’s antique lanterns and dozens of handmade paper snowflakes.
Kate looked at me, surprised.
“Anna, what’s all this?” she asked.
“The power is still out, Kate,” I said gently.
“But we still have light.”
We collided over differing themes for the celebration, but this time it was different.
Her modern glass ornaments and my rustic lanterns.
Her gourmet appetizers and my classic casserole.
Slowly, we started to realize the importance of inclusivity.
We could merge our styles.
The elegant and the rustic.
The new and the old.
It wasn’t a competition.
Realizing they could merge styles softened their hearts.
We strung the paper snowflakes next to Kate’s shimmering icicles.
We placed my flickering lanterns alongside her LED candles.
We finally worked together to create a unified theme.
The house, lit by a hundred candles and the glow of the snowy outside, was breathtaking.
We collapsed into laughter as the night neared, the pressure of perfection replaced by shared effort and unexpected joy.
This was a new feeling for us.
Christmas Eve at Anna’s home, festively lit, began.
Actually, it was at Kate’s house, but it *felt* like home.
Family members and friends gathered, some having braved the snow.
The atmosphere was joyful, despite the flickering lights and the improvised arrangements.
For a moment, conflicting family dynamics threatened to emerge amid the joy.
A distant aunt grumbled about the lack of traditional Christmas carols.
A cousin complained about the limited menu due to the power outage.
But Kate and I, united, handled it together.
New traditions began to take shape, born out of necessity.
A singalong by candlelight instead of a fancy concert.
A potluck of dishes that miraculously survived the storm.
I felt the warmth of acceptance, a feeling I hadn’t realized I craved so desperately.
Guests found common ground in shared stories of the snowstorm.
The shared laughter, the unexpected unity, filled the house.
I stood up, addressing everyone.
My heart felt full.
“Thank you all for coming,” I began, my voice clear and strong.
“This Christmas is a little different than planned.”
“But perhaps, that’s what makes it so special.”
I looked at Kate, a genuine smile on my face.
“I want to thank Kate for her incredible vision and hard work,” I said.
“And for showing me that new traditions can be just as beautiful.”
“And Kate,” I added, “thank you for making room for my old ones too.”
Old grievances, momentarily suppressed, vanished entirely.
Shared laughter sparked unity as everyone toasted.
I embraced the collective spirit of Christmas.
A newly formed bond among family members was palpable.
Guests took turns sharing stories, some funny, some poignant.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was real.
It was *ours*.
Then came the heartwarming moment of giving gifts.
The room was abuzz with anticipation.
A small slip disrupted the moment when different expectations came to light.
One of the children received a toy that didn’t work without batteries, and the power outage made it unusable.
A wave of awkwardness washed over us.
But then David, ever the diplomat, pulled out a stack of board games.
“Looks like we’re going old school tonight!” he declared.
Tension simmered but was quickly diffused by laughter.
Then, Sam handed me a small, clumsily wrapped present.
Inside was a hand-drawn picture of me and Kate, holding hands, surrounded by both modern and vintage Christmas decorations.
And a hidden, heartfelt letter.
“Grandma,” he had written, in shaky child’s script.
“I love both your Christmases. Please don’t be sad anymore.”
Then he handed Kate a similar drawing, with a note saying:
“Mom, Grandma Anna has the best stories. You should listen.”
The revelation of heartfelt gifts brought tears of joy to my eyes, and Kate’s.
Sam’s innocence and wisdom cut through all the adult drama.
It promoted an emotional shift that mended our fractured relationships.
Those deeper messages in the exchanged gifts were the most precious of all.
Late in the evening, as guests began to depart, Kate, David, and I were left reflecting on the night.
Kate admitted her uneasiness about moving forward.
“I got so caught up in making it perfect,” she confessed, her voice tired but honest.
“I almost forgot what Christmas was truly about.”
I reached out and squeezed her hand.
“You did wonderfully, Kate,” I said, genuinely.
“And I learned a lot too. About letting go.”
I offered my support to grow together.
A renewed determination settled in both of us.
We began planning future family traditions together, not as rivals, but as partners.
A toast to new chapters started, a promise for many more shared Christmases.
Christmas Day morning in Anna’s home.
The storm had passed, the power was back on.
The house was filled with the smell of my traditional Christmas breakfast.
Kate, David, and Sam arrived, beaming.
Overwhelming emotions from the previous night’s success were still present, but now they were happy emotions.
The successful collaboration deepened our relationships.
A joyful spirit rose as we bonded over breakfast, recounting the “adventures” of Christmas Eve.
Family members vowed to move forward together positively.
Sam, always the instigator of fun, led a group game to continue the family fun.
“Charades!” he announced, holding up a box.
The living room filled with laughter as family games commenced.
Playful sibling rivalry surfaced between David and his sister, Sarah, who had arrived that morning.
But it was lighthearted.
Laughter strengthened our bonds throughout the game.
Feelings of warmth filled the space, a palpable sense of peace.
Experiencing joy together solidified their new family dynamic.
As the day ended, we started to plan for next year’s Christmas.
“We’ll do a combined theme, definitely,” Kate suggested, eyes sparkling.
“A little vintage, a little modern.”
“And my oyster casserole is a must,” I chimed in, smiling.
All family members were together, sharing final thoughts on the day.
Brief fears resurfaced about future holidays, but they were quickly dismissed.
Everyone expressed their commitment to continued unity.
Warmth engulfed all as they promised to share traditions.
A collective resolution to address differences moving forward was made.
I looked outside at the peaceful, snow-covered landscape.
It felt like a fresh start.
Later, on New Year’s Eve, we were all gathered again in my cozy living room.
Anna, Kate, David, and Sam.
Celebrating with hot cocoa and a stack of board games.
We discussed our New Year’s resolutions.
Old frictions arose over choices for family traditions in 2023, but they were gentle now.
Playful disagreements, not heated arguments.
We decided to merge old and new customs into future celebrations.
A beautiful blend of both our worlds.
Hope sprang as laughter ensued and the love felt palpable.
Everyone toasted, foreshadowing a collaboratively strong year ahead.
The camera zoomed out of the joyful family interaction.
Later, on my porch, in the crisp winter air, Kate and I had a private heart-to-heart.
“You know, Anna,” Kate began, looking out at the glittering snow.
“I used to think I had to prove myself. Had to be better.”
“But after this Christmas… I just want to be *us*.”
I smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile.
“You’ve shown me so much, Kate,” I confessed.
“How to let go. How to embrace change.”
“And I know you’ll carry on our family’s legacy, in your own beautiful way.”
Kate acknowledged she saw Anna differently now.
It was a healing moment, vulnerability shining through.
Firm bonds began to be established, stronger than ever before.
We walked inside together, arm in arm.
Back in the warm living room, the family continued to bond.
We discussed setting plans for next Christmas.
The idea of taking on too many roles could unravel teamwork.
But we all agreed on sharing responsibilities as a family unit.
The excitement radiated from our newfound accord.
It established newly formed concepts to transform our dynamics.
Sam ran into the room with a heartwarming surprise.
He had drawn a “Family Rules” poster.
On it, in big, crayon letters, it said: “Rule #1: Always share.”
And “Rule #2: Everyone gets a turn.”
As the clock neared midnight on New Year’s Eve, everyone gathered, full of anticipation.
We celebrated the changes and resolutions, our hearts light.
Unchecked expectations could have arisen, but everyone remained calm.
Their love for one another healed lingering wounds.
Spiritual contentment filled the gathering.
An affirmation of united family principles settled over us.
As champagne glasses clinked, greeting the New Year.
Memories of holidays past brought emotional reflection, but no regret.
We resolved to approach future holidays with collaboration, not competition.
Hope resonated as hearts opened to new ecosystems of family.
Family plans for a shared Christmas in peace, with traditions old and new, were made.
The camera cut to the family celebrating, shifting perspectives gracefully into 2023.
What would you have done if your daughter-in-law tried to take over Christmas?
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