Merry Christmas. Christmas is really on Saturday for us this year, since Grandma and Grampa W (“dubbidu”) are arriving today, aka “Christmas Eve.” So yesterday didn’t really feel like Christmas, and the family members certainly weren’t acting like it was the most exciting holiday of the year. The three-year-old was whining for more “Wee Sing”--she won’t watch Frosty or Rudolph, apparently because they are too frightening. The wee, wee one had no idea; she’s happy any day of the week. And all I wanted for Christmas was my coffee. Fortunately the kind neighbors across the street took pity on us and invited us to their Hannukah party, so there we were, the lonely Christians* on Christmas. But it was fun. From an outsider’s point of view, Hannukah seems to involve excessive chocolate, excellent food, wine, and lovely candles. All good, in my opinion.

When we realized we’d be spending Christmas in Ithaca, the first thing we did was get a tree. I sent the Husband and the Toddler out on the mission, certain they’d be up to performing the task. They returned with a plastic-wrapped evergreen torpedo. “Did you look at it before they wrapped it up?” I asked. “It came that way!” Charles exclaimed. “No mess in the car!” He cut the plastic off, and brown needles showered the floor. “We’ll just turn this side to the wall,” he said, looking at the dun-colored branches. “Let’s put the lights on!” the toddler yelled, jumping around in circles. I was trying to remember the last time I changed the battery in the smoke detector. Fortunately the risk of fire was reduced because there are enough lights to cover just half of the tree. We could only reach some of the Christmas decorations because the pile of boxes in our storage unit has the structural integrity of Swiss cheese, so roughly the top third of the tree is covered with ornaments. This works out well since Astronaut has decided it is her objective to rip down everyornament within her reach. We keep finding slightly damp gingerbread soldiers under the couch, and each night I fall asleep to the sound of glass balls skittering on the floor. My dear sweet child, feeling that she can negate millions of years of feline evolution, shrieks at Astro whenever she finds her with yet another quilted snowflake in her mouth. Astro herself is doing her best to break out of the carnivore bracket, eating the lower branches of the tree bit by bit.

I feel like there’s some sort of wise, thought-provoked statement I should make on the true nature of Christmas, a revelation I’ve had while pondering the twinkling lights, half-baked tree and the real priorities of my toddler. But the two brain cells I have to rub together aren’t up to such a task, so I’ll spare you the melodrama (and I’m certain you’ll thank me).

Merry Christmas.

*Charles would like me to point out that calling him a “Christian” is certainly a stretch of the imagination.