\His name is Wahlitahliwamba! He eats little girls' fingers and toes for dinner!"" my 12-year-old cousin Andrew insists as the younger ones tremble and cry.
""He's green and mean and he'll kill you!""
Andrew is chasing them around the living room now, eliciting shrieks from his sisters and cousins as he growls at them. A few minutes later he explains in horrific detail exactly how Wahlitahliwamba plans to dismember and devour their preciously small bodies. Because, of course, the monster's already eaten every other kid on the block.
Shocked, the children hide amongst the pristine living room furniture.
""No one can kill him except ME!"" Andrew confides. ""He's invincible. Do you know what that means? It means even when you've surrounded him and are ready to catch him, he disappears!""
Gasps from behind the loveseat.
As the oldest cousin and youngest adult, I'm stuck in my family holiday routine of awkwardly observing the generations in action.
""I can save you from him, IF you go get me a juice box and a piece of turtle pie,"" Andrew proposes. Almost immediately the cousins race to kitchen.
""Clever, Andrew,"" I comment as he gives me a satisfied nod.
Yes, the perfect monster. With a name you can't pronounce, a motive you can't understand and an inhuman proclivity toward evil and revenge. Appropriately, this flawless creature favors freaky torture and can only be beaten by a select few-for a price. While such a profile wreaks of ridiculousness, the kids buy it without question.
Does brilliance run in the family? Or was it just some Thanksgiving Day luck? In any case, I regret to myself that my 17-year-old sister is too old to fall for such tricks anymore.
As Andrew commands the attention of the little ones by telling them that killing the demonic child-eating monster may require a few more favors, I wander into the family room and sigh.
Finally, sophistication. Longing for a more mature environment, I slide onto the couch next to my aunt only to find that no one is speaking.
In the adult room, my aunts, uncles, parents and sister sit nibbling on carrot cake, transfixed on the evening news.
Something about a prominent Iraqi terrorist leader.
As the beautiful newscaster narrates in a soft singsong, violent images flash upon the screen.
Gasps from behind the carrot cake.
Noticing my frustration, my aunt turns to me and breaks the silence.
""Geez, I remember when you were that little,"" she whispers, pointing to the children in the other room.
I scowl. I was a weird kid. I don't like talking about it.
""You were so... funny looking!"" she giggles.
""I guess some things never change,"" I mumble.
And we turn and watch the rest of the news without a word.
