Labor Day Weekend?

by Kimberly Ripley

Will it be like this at YOUR Labor Day gathering???

How much worse does it get than arriving at your childhood home and learning that your second cousin twice removed on your mother's side has arrived, too. Not only has she chosen to visit on the weekend you'd looked forward to for months, but she's brought her husband and her three kids. What could be nicer, you may be thinking? Certainly nothing, except that Mabel's husband is a CEO at some high and mighty corporation and their kids are all geniuses. One of the little nerds plays the violin, and the other two (twins of course) are fashion models and carry their portfolios everywhere they go.

So? So, your own husband, God love him, is a professional man in his own right. Isn't there a professional affiliation for garbage men? And your kids are-well, they were good kids once-when they were born maybe. It's not your fault Scott got thrown out of school in the eighth grade, or that he's tattooed almost every imaginable piece of skin on his body. And it's certainly not your fault that your seventeen-year old daughter ran off with the kid bagging groceries at Winn Dixie. How could your second cousin twice removed on your mother's side find fault with that?

She can and she will. And to top it all off, once you actually arrive, and pull up a chair-ready to settle in for a nice hot cup of tea and one of Mom's famous homemade brownies, you are given the news that your Uncle Al is coming, too, and he's bringing his eighth wife Mary, and Mary's four grandchildren. Oh, my, whatever is happening to your nice homecoming weekend?

Open your eyes, you've just entered the realm of the Dreaded Family Reunion! Sometimes these events are the result of months and months of careful planning. Other times they are exactly like this-different family members from all over the place had the same intuitive thoughts about getting together with family on this particular weekend. After all, isn't that what family's all about? And so now you'll all find yourselves thrown together like kids at summer camp-sharing bedrooms, sharing bathrooms, and doling out and taking part in a wide array of activities and duties to make the weekend run smoothly. And who said you weren't in for a good time?

Won't it be fun when new Aunt Mary decides to dance the macarena for the entire family-right after breakfast on Saturday morning? Perhaps Mabel's maestro would join in and play the violin for the dancing diva. And then right after lunch it's decided (although you're never sure by whom) that there is a need for some kind of group activity, and Mabel's husband Mort suggests charades, and then a houseful of adults and spoiled children spend the next two hours making asses of themselves as they twist, gyrate, and maneuver their bodies, trying to make impressions without any sound. Are you having fun yet?

After dinner on the first night you aptly try escaping-just a few minutes down the road to the river by yourself-you'll smoke a cigarette, do a little thinking, possibly come to the conclusion that you're glad you showed up after all-but no, that walk won't occur-at least not solo. As you make your exit through the kitchen door, and are nearing the end of the driveway a familiar voice calls out your name.

"Dana! Yoo-hoo, Dana! Where are you going?"

"Just for a little walk Uncle Al," you reply.

"Mind if I join you?"

What the hell are you supposed to say?

As you and Uncle Al spend what was meant to be your half hour of relaxation discussing the perils of smoking and the horrific demise one suffers when dying of lung cancer, you decide you hate family reunions. That's it. Final. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it. You just hate them plain and simple. And you also hate yourself for thinking for one minute that a weekend at your childhood home could result in warm and happy memories, and good feelings to carry back to your life as a grown woman, wife, and mother. 

So where do people get off planning these things? There are even entire magazines and clubs devoted completely to the subject of family reunions. Some folks get into them to the point where they create matching T-shirts for the whole clan to wear. Isn't that just the sweetest thing you've ever heard? As if your own identity doesn't suffer enough wounds already when facing this kind of a crowd-to whom you're related by blood ! It is almost unfathomable that a group of adults would conceivably prepare food, drink, accommodations, and an entire itinerary of activities for a bunch of people they haven't seen in a dozen years? Why not just check them into Motel 6, hand them a Happy Meal, and tell them to come on by for drinks around eight? Seems a lot simpler, doesn't it?

Sorry, though. You just aren't getting out of it this time. You're here. They're here. And you just need to learn to make the best of it. Your kids have holed up in the attic with their cell phones, and your husband is busy sorting the trash and recyclables, so take your shoes off, put your feet up, and pretend your just one more happy member of the gang!

By the weekend's end, and the end of your rope, you feign delight at the reunion, and kiss everyone's overly made up faces. (You even suspect that Uncle Al might be wearing a little make-up!) And you politely acknowledge the perfect children belonging to your second cousin twice removed on your mother's side. You secretly wish the little snobs would choke on their little bottles of spring water they carry with them wherever they go. (We can't drink tap water. It hurts our vocals.) Your face hurts from the fake smile that has been plastered on for the duration, and your head hurts as well.

As you leave, you breathe a giant sigh of relief and head on back to your own life-which at this point is looking pretty normal. And that night before you close your eyes to sleep you whisper a little prayer of thanks for your husband the garbage man, and your tattooed and promiscuous children. Life's not all that bad, is it?