What I Learned On My Christmas Vacation OR An Insider’s Guide to Pushing the Morton Family Buttons

This year, Christmas vacation afforded the Morton family the rare and much-needed opportunity to actually be present in the same room—all of us together—for more than 30 minutes at a time.  Truth be told, I had forgotten what the Bureaucrat’s face looked like, having only been able to view the top of his head as he ate his dinner or leaned over his law books for the past several months.  Turns out the children resemble him as much as they do me…go figure.

Of course, our children resemble us in much more than just physical features (the Dictator has my eyes, the Anarchist has his forehead); our children also have inherited a fascinating mix of our personality traits, both good and not-so-good, so that the combination of personality traits clashing and sometimes exploding in the Morton household this Christmas was nothing short of a fascinating spectacle.  We had to reacquaint ourselves with each other, with our various personality quirks and compulsions, and learn how to live with one another again.  In the process, we fast discovered how best to torment one another, deciding by trial and error exactly which buttons to push to manipulate, annoy, retaliate, or destroy, depending upon our needs. 

The following is a guide to pushing our buttons, should you ever need to seek vengeance against any of us.  Use it wisely.

The Bureaucrat:

• Leave a mostly empty mug of coffee wherever you go.  When you need a refill, get a new mug and leave it somewhere different.  See how long it takes to grow mold on the mugs.  Insist that the house’s growing mug collection is part of its charm.

• Eat graham crackers on the couch.  When graham crackers are halfway finished, sit on them.  Let crumbs collect over time for maximum effect.

• Wait until the Bureaucrat is at a lengthy mid-sentence pause (this should be easy, as they are frequent).  Sigh heavily and urge him to “hurry up.”  Snap your fingers impatiently in his face while doing this to maximize his rage.

• Become convinced you are dying of your head cold.  Attempt to convince the Bureaucrat you are dying of your head cold.  He will LOVE this.

Dictator:

 

• Touch anything that might arguably belong to her.

• Insist that skirts and cloth shoes are not always practical clothing options.  Suggest pants and boots, instead.

• Make dinner.  Place her sister’s cup at her place at the table.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned cup-mix-up.

• Run out of blackberries or strawberries.  Offer apples, pears, oranges, peppers, pineapples, carrots or blueberries instead.  Suggest that violent rage might possibly be an unwarranted response to the aforementioned produce "shortage."

Anarchist:

 

• Sit on the spot on the couch nearest the television.  Refuse to move.

• Use the phrase, “use the potty.”

• Wait until she has consumed a coin.  Remove the remaining stash of coins to a safe, undisclosed location.

• Suggest that she is too small to do anything.

Me:

 

• Discuss at great length, and in extremely minute detail, your plans for some part of some specific activity for the day.  Be sure to obsessively analyze the various ways in which the mundane task (for example, doing the laundry, washing the dishes, packing your Littlest Pet Shop Friends) might be carried out.  Ask constantly for reassurance that your decided way of carrying out said task is the most reasonable.  Repeat regularly for maximum effect.

• Be excessively compliant until two minutes before we have to leave to go somewhere important.  Upon my urgings to hurry, remove your shoes, coat and hat.  Run off to another level of the house to “get something.”  Forget you are supposed to be leaving.  Weep because someone touched your possessions.  Insist that I help you find something.  Start dancing in front of a mirror.  Cry because I’m angry.  Become angry with me because we’re late.

• Put the dishes away, but neglect to put them in rainbow order. 

• Leap out from a dark and secret place and sink your fangs into my calf.  Go on, try it.  I dare you.

and, lest we forget, the Fat Assassin: 

• Pass the upstairs linen closet (in which the cat treats reside).  Ignore repeated, entitled meowing for cat treats.  Neglect to give out cat treats.

• Wrap Christmas gifts.  Refuse to let the Fat Assassin luxuriate all over the overpriced designer wrapping paper.  Kick the Fat Assassin out of the room. 

• Attempt to sort the dirty laundry mountain in the closet upon which the Fat Assassin has made her cozy bed.

• Withhold your fleshy calves for any reason.