Someone kindly told me they enjoyed my Thanksgiving post, and asked if I was going to write any Christmas reminiscences. I’ve been thinking about that, and for some reason it’s much more difficult. Because Christmas itself is kind of difficult.

The expectations for Christmas are so much higher, and the scope so much larger. Thanksgiving is one big dinner, followed by a long weekend. Christmas requires cards, presents, parties, decorations, and at least one big meal, and it is as often as not followed by going to work the next day. Add to that the timing — the last few days of the calendar year are a busy time in many workplaces — and you have a lot of pressure. I think if I had to pick a favorite day of the year, I would have to pick December 26. ___________________________________

My mixed feelings about Christmas are perhaps partly genetic. My birth family is relatively unsentimental about holidays, although they always seem to have a good time getting together.

Being adopted, though, I was raised in a different setting.  My mother lived in a world that was constantly expecting performance, perfection, and a pretense of enthusiasm.  Christmas was a time of particular pressure for her.  Some sort of quarreling in the kitchen is pretty common during Christmas dinner preparations, but my mom never did that because her parents were usually there, and she had to be more perfect for her own parents than for anyone else. Instead, the exact nature of my inadequacy would be explained in fierce whispers. This was often followed by my hair being twisted silently until I was sitting on the floor.

I remember snippets of Christmas when I was very small, and those memories are mostly pleasant enough. There were pictures of us every year with Santa, in our perfect dresses, and pictures of us every year in our new pajamas putting out cookies and milk by our stockings. My dad was an artist at heart, and the pictures are always gorgeous, if a little posed.

We got plenty of good presents. My favorite present ever was in fifth grade, when I got a piccolo. I was already a pretty good flute player, and I practiced for a couple of hours on the piccolo until my father asked me rather desperately if I could please stop. (The piccolo is not really designed for endless, a capella performances.)

When I got married, I left a home of perfection and prosperity to join a family that had much less of both. Like most families, there was an evolving cast of colorful characters. There was Elaine, holding the whole event together, even if she herself seemed to fall apart some years. It was always chaotic, often contentious, and still warmer and more comfortable than anything I recall growing up.

There was one year we tried to make the whole meal in the microwave. (No, that doesn’t work.) There was one year when the kids were small and the four of us were in California, far from the warmth and energy of the rest of the family, and with scarcely five dollars to our name. We had tuna casserole for Christmas dinner that year. The boys were too small to realize that this was wrong, and too young to retain any memory of it. But most years we had plenty of food, gifts, and festivity.

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This particular Christmas has actually been one of my favorites. We were able to scale back the gift-giving somewhat, because we don’t need anything, and the boys need things like car repairs or grocery money — which we are happy to give, but don’t know how to wrap.

At work we scaled back on gift-giving also, which took off a lot of pressure. We agreed to donate that money instead, and ended up choosing Heifer International. This very likely generated a thousand dollars or so for a great cause. Instead of buying each other more scented candles and silk scarves, we helped families who still farm by hand, and don’t have enough milk, or money for school. This makes me even happier than that piccolo did.

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Whether your family is prosperous or making do, whether they are contentious or peaceful, and even if you have to eat tuna casserole for dinner, I hope you all have a Christmas filled with love and warmth and memories. The rest of it doesn’t really matter, after all.