It’s Christmas Eve. I’m hosting Christmas dinner for my family tomorrow–all 21 of them. I have three siblings, all married with families, in the area. We rotate who hosts Thanksgiving and Christmas from year to year. The last time I hosted Christmas was several years ago, pinch-hitting for my sister-in-law, whose mother had a stroke two days before Christmas.

That year, it was sandwich meats and prepared side dishes from the Wild Oats deli, laid out in the kitchen, with a pot of soup on the stove. We were happy to get together as a family and no one had expectations of clean houses or elaborate meals. It had the feeling of come as you are. My sister-in-law had spent the better part of two days at the hospital, not knowing whether her 80 something mother would live. (She did, recovering quite nicely over the ensuing months.) My sister-in-law showed up late, on break from the hospital watch, to celebrate with the rest of the family.

This year, I’ve known since Halloween that my husband and I would be hosting Christmas. For a month, my husband and I have been planning–the menu for a sit down dinner, when and where to get our tree, how many tables to rent, how we would fit everyone into a living room with two pianos occupying most of the space. (My husband sold the grand piano two weeks before Christmas and moved the upright into the family room.)

Since last week, the pitch of my detailed, task-oriented mind has risen, like a crescendo that takes the audience by surprise, until it’s too late to emotionally prepare oneself for the clash of the cymbals and the thundering of the timpani.

Usually, I go for surface clean before parties–bathrooms with shiny mirrors and fresh towels, vacuumed carpets, and dirty dishes cleared off the kitchen counter. Not so this year.

I laid out an attack on 16 years of dust and grime in the kitchen–scrubbing baseboards and kitchen cabinets with a mixture of vinegar and water (why didn’t someone tell me about the wonderful qualities of this concoction years ago?), scraping layers of dirt that had nested between tiles (I hadn’t seen the grout since the 90’s), vacuuming years of ashes from the self-cleaning oven (which looks almost empty now, like a clean ash tray), wiping an inch of dust from the top of the frig (when you’re short, you don’t notice these areas.) I shudder to think how my family, the tall ones, the ones who know about using vinegar and water, the ones who clean their ovens thoroughly at least once a decade have been seeing the nightmare of a health inspector play out. While I was oblivious.

The crescendo reached a double forte two days ago.

Two days ago, I argued angrily with my son while checking out at the Target (my sixth trip in less than two weeks), about how it was okay to make placecards out of last year’s Christmas cards and how he hurt my feelings when he criticized the ornaments I bought at the after-Christmas sale last year.

I wondered if the check-out girl had witnessed more of these conversations as the big day approached. 

In the car, my son brought up the fact that I wouldn’t let him wrap a birthday present for a 13-year old boy friend in rose colored paper decorated with flowers. We both cried. We argued some more, before stomping into the house. All before 10am.

My husband looked at me in his reading chair, knowing that he had just witnessed the tail end of something much worse.  He later said to me, while I was channelling my anger into cleaning the refrigerator door, "He’s a good boy. And you’re a good mom."  I burst into tears.

Just as Beethoven creates tension and then relief in musical lines, I felt my life had played out those emotional melodies in the last month. Now I could go back to experiencing the quiet parts of life. The parts where the violins play softly and a poignant oboe comes in to tell us all about the sweetness of life. Again.

Today, I’ll make an over the top chocolate dessert, the brainchild of my 12-year old son, who loves to experiment as much as I do. We’ll mix a chocolate mousse recipe with a fallen chocolate souffle with fresh raspberry sauce and creme anglaise. We’ll get plenty of practice separating egg yolks from egg whites and melting bars of Ghiradelli chocolate. We’ll be immersed in the moment, where flutes dance the melody line and clarinets support the harmony. 

I am still expecting another crescendo or two, as I arrange tables with homemade centerpieces and wine glasses or pick up the roast at the grocery story or light the candles before everyone arrives. What I will remember, when the trumpets are piercing, pinching me, and the piccolo shrieks wildly, is that all I need to do is listen. Listen to the music of life. The sweetness will come back soon. It always does.