— I’ll admit it. Christmas Eve at my mother’s house can be intimidating. With 65 people of all ages and sizes, the living area is jam packed. Before everyone has settled into couches and chairs, it’s hard to get past the front door. Approximately 50 of these individuals share my DNA, so I think it’s fun to be in their midst. My husband does not love it quite so much.

This year, while elbowing my way toward the dining room table for a bowl of chili, I considered how things look through my husband’s eyes. It’s total sensory overload: teenaged cousins screaming with glee and “too tired” toddlers are whining for one more cookie. People are bumping into each other all over the place, hugging and kissing in the process. For Jimmy, it’s too loud, too crazy and too crowded.

 He doesn’t understand why we continue to gather in a space that the fire marshal would certainly not approve. After all, three of my sisters with larger homes have generously offered to host. Momma will have none of that. “This could be my last Christmas,” she says with a twinkle in her blue eyes.  At 88, her power of persuasion is as strong as ever.

 And so it’s the same every year. We gather at 5 p.m. Father Bill blesses us with a home Mass and we sing, mostly off key, to classics like Joy to the World and Silent Night.  The sacred service is followed by dinner and desserts. Everybody brings something. By the time we unload our offerings, the dining room table is sagging with chili, ham, salads and green beans.

 The sweets table holds a trifle bowl layered with pudding, devil’s food cake, and whipped cream. Called Charlie’s Chocolate Adieu, it’s a confection baked in honor of Daddy who died almost 25 years ago. Known for hiding Hershey kisses in his sock drawer, he passed down his sweet tooth.

Having grown up crowded, this Christmas Eve happening has always been my normal.  As a result, I saw no need to prepare him before I brought him home to meet the family on Christmas Eve 1975. It was our second date.  Having asked him to pick me up at my parent’s house instead of my apartment, I will never forget the confused look on his face as my 13 brothers and sisters took turns embracing him. Comprehension kicked in slowly as he scanned the stockings wrapping the mantel.  

Having come from a small family, Jimmy took a while to warm up to the bedlam but these days he quietly accepts the traditions of our tribe. Halfway through the evening, one of the nephews changes into a well worn Santa suit and hands out candy canes. While I am certain that my spouse won’t be wearing the beard and Santa suit anytime soon, he now participates like a member of the home team.   I can’t say when his conversion began but I knew it was under way when he did something that had nothing to do with the holidays.  He invited my mother to live with us.

The biggest reflection of my husband’s changed attitude was witnessed at the end of Christmas Eve after Momma had gone to bed.  By that time, we were tripping over each other, cleaning up the kitchen and taking out the trash. It was a perfect time to analyze the party.  “Next year we’ll have it in a bigger house,” somebody said.  Brooms and dirty plates in hand, everyone nodded in agreement. I looked over at my husband who spoke volumes with his silence.  After 34 years I knew  exactly what he was thinking.

It’s too loud, too crazy and too crowded. It’s exactly where we will be on Christmas Eve 2012.  

Donia Caspersen Crouch was raised in Southeast Texas and lives in Austin. Contact her at dcrouch17@austin.rr.com.