<p>My mother wants all her kids and grandkids to spend Christmas Eve at her house and wake up on Christmas morning together. </p><br /><p>Sounds reasonable right? And it would be.</p><br /><p>If it weren’t <em>my</em> mother.</p><br /><p>My husband Declan is protesting any involvement though he’s openly intrigued by the idea of claiming his territory by having sex in my childhood bed.</p><br /><p>And by intrigued I mean a series of really hot suggestions that make me whimper when I have to say no.</p><br /><p>Wait — <em>why</em> am I saying no again?</p><br /><p>Mom has turned her house into a Christmas showcase that makes Frankenmuth look like the picked-over clearance rack at Target on December 26. You know those crazy people on Etsy who make felted gnomes out of belly-button lint and use… a certain kind of hair… to make thatched roofs on little decorative elf homes?</p><br /><p>Those people are saner than my mother.</p><br /><p>There is no force of nature stronger — or more emotionally volatile — than a fifty-something grandmother determined to create holiday memories.</p><br /><p>Wait a minute. Maybe there is.</p><br /><p>My husband.</p>