This is the part that still gives me nightmares. You do not believe in primal instincts until you see a suburban mother of two hip-check a grandmother for the last Instant Pot.

As the husband and brother-in-law, my role has shifted from bystander to specialized support unit. Here is my strategy:

Imagine putting two highly intelligent, organized, and slightly competitive women in charge of Christmas dinner. It sounds like a formula for success, right?

the WiFi router blinks red instead of green. I’ve seen it happen maybe four times. Each time is worse than the last. The transformation begins with denial. “Maybe it’s just a glitch.” Then anger. “Who touched the router? Was it you?” (It’s always me, apparently.) Then bargaining. “If I sacrifice this smart plug, will the internet gods spare us?”

This is a clever trick. Suggest Forbidden Island or Pandemic , where players work together against the game. For about ten minutes, it works. But then one sister will argue that the other sister “isn’t pulling her weight” in the virus-curing department, and suddenly the cooperative game becomes the most cutthroat competitive arena of all.

If you had told me ten years ago that I would spend my December weekends hiding behind a rack of discounted sweaters, clutching a lukewarm latte like a soldier gripping a grenade, I would have laughed in your face. But that was before I witnessed the transformation.