Ho, ho, ho

Okay, that's it! Now it's Christmas. There's snow, one of our neighbours has outdoor lights set up, and Bing is on the loudspeaker at Starbucks, where I am curled up by the fire. And the kicker? Last night, in the tub, Munchkin told us that Santa is on his way, that it is Christmas and there are lovely trees, and under the tree, Santa puts presents for the children.

Right, then.

We've been enjoying Christmas as parents: a six month old is pretty cute in Santa pjs, and is happy to sit around peering into empty gift bags. And eighteen month old enjoys spending time with the grandparents and wearing silly hats, to wit;


But now she's got her own expectations--set by books at daycare, and her friends, and some exposure to, well, the rest of the world--and I feel weirdly stressed ...

Enough, I say! I love Christmas and I refuse to be browbeaten into holiday one-upmanship. Pynchon and I have always made lists for each other, laid groundrules, set budgets, been fantastically explicit about what our expectations are. As a result, we love our holidays. Now we're taking our newest family member into account, and here's what we want: we don't want to overwhelm her with gifts on the morning; we do want her to have fun with the rituals of decorating, and visiting, and baking with her family; we do want to turn her thoughts outward to the happiness of others, with participating in charity; we want to limit the commercialism while maximising the fun.

So she's getting: one present of some new books from Mom; one present of Play-Doh from Dad; and one big present from Santa--this thing:

I think she'll catch one look at this thing and that's all we'll see of her for the rest of the day. My sister's kids always have so much to open that they don't really enjoy anything at all. She's always pulling them off whatever they've just opened and want to play with, and directing them to the next thing, so that now, the morning is not about enjoying what you get, but about doing all the opening, tallying everything up. No thanks, I say.

We'll be heading Way the Hell Up North this year, packing all our modest gifts and expectations into the Echo with us, and I will be lulled into a coma on the four hour drive by the Xmas music I will insist be played on the stereo and by the blasting heat of the defroster that Pynchon will insist be coursing through the vents. It will be snowy and dark outside, warm and bright in my parents' house. We will spend Xmas eve assembling a dollhouse, tiny screws and tiny stickers and tiny batteries. We will place it in front of the tree, where Munchkin will see it first thing in the morning. Grownups will drink coffee and tea, slippered feet up on the couch, reading newspapers and magazines.

Christmas starts now for us. I will enjoy it. Tomorrow, Pynchon will bring down the Xmas boxes from the attic, and Munchkin and I will bedeck the house in bows, and we will talk about our family traditions. Then we'll play outside or go grocery shopping or make muffins. Maybe next week we'll put the gingerbread house together. The time is ours to use as we want, and the season is ours to craft into our own family traditions, our own pace. Less rush, more ritual. Less money, more time. Less stuff, more hospitality. Less greed, more charity.

More fun.

We'll see how long we can hold off the tequila binge.