I do love me some kitschy Christmas stuff. I love it all over the house, inside and out. It makes me feel cheerful and jolly, hummy and smile-ful, la la la la.

We did most of the outside yesterday. First we went to buy the Christmas tree and wreaths, and then while Anthony took the kids to swim lessons, I hauled out lights and outdoor decor. It was a miraculous year, in which all our creatures lit up without any effort, and we got everything electrically daisy-chained properly.

It doesn’t look like much here, but you should see those babies when they’re lit up at night. There’s all sorts of tacky there. I just can’t photograph it for you because I don’t have a camera anymore, just an iPhone, so use your imagination.

There are lights outlining the eves of the house, and the wreaths went up this morning.

Look at that big boy over the garage. It’s about 4 feet in diameter. Too bad you can’t make out the incredibly tacky decorations we attached to it. I had to go up the 20-foot extension ladder, because Anthony gets verrrrry anxious on a tall ladder. I held the wreath over my head in a one-armed military press as I climbed. It weighed down on my back as I hung it, and then I had to kind of lay flat on the ladder as I backed down until the wreath slipped off me, pulling my shirt and coat up to my mid-back as I descended so that my plumber butt and waistline blubber were fully aired out. I’m pretty sure Anthony, who was steadying the ladder for me from below, was well entertained. I hope no one was walking by.

The house doesn’t light the street up like a second moon yet, so I’m thinking we need more. Maybe some reindeer, or a series of light-up candy-canes. There can never be too much kitsch, in my opinion.

After doing that, we got busy inside. We decorated the tree, of course.

It’s quite lovely. I think it’s our prettiest tree ever. We say that every year, and every year it’s true. Oops, I messed up the picture. You can’t see the two peace doves hanging out on the top of the tree. This is why I usually post blogs with no pictures. It’s not something I’m good at.

Here are some of the ornaments from the first tree Anthony and I ever shared, which I wrote about yesterday. This is a really good photo of them; they’re uglier in real life. We put them up high, right at the top of the tree where there’s almost no risk of breakage. I’m pretty sure they contain mercury, lead, and other toxic heavy metals.

Look at this lovely little bird. It’s only about 2 inches long, part of a set of a dozen or so little cloisonné birds of different colors and species, which Mom gave us after Jesse was born. I love hanging these little guys.

I also love this funky little ball covered in sand art. My brother Eric and his wife Wendy gave us this when they were still living in Arizona. It reminds me of depositions I had to attend in Phoenix when I was still a lawyer. The depositions sucked. The only good thing about those trips was that I got to see Eric and Wendy.

Here’s a salt-dough gingerbread man that Jesse decorated last year. I told you in an earlier post about how she was traumatized in K4 by the G Man’s demise. Maybe the hole I put through the middle of his head for hanging him on the tree wasn’t such a good idea. But at least she didn’t paint him blood-red, and I think the silver glitter dripping from the purple slash at his neck has a really up-beat quality.

Here are a couple ornaments Grandma (Anthony’s mom) brought back from a trip to Russia.

They were for the kids, one each, but with strict instructions that these are very precious and must be treated with absolute and unrelenting carefulness. Yes you may hang your ornaments, but DON’T BREAK THEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Here’s another of my favorites, a hand-painted clay butterfly (one of three) we received as wedding favors many years ago from a nice couple who married when we were still in Washington, D.C. There was a lot of salsa dancing at the wedding. They actually hired an instructor to help people dance during the reception. So Anthony and I did not dance. We slouched at our table and drank. We fell asleep while we were taking the metro home and woke up at the end of the line. I can’t remember if we were able to take a return train or if we had to catch a cab at that point. It was a long night. But we took home our butterflies. We weren’t sure what to do with them, but I rigged them up with some yarn and now we hang them on our tree every year.

There’s all sorts of other kitsch in the house too. The snow globes.

The creepy night lights.

Less creepy when they’re turned off.

Anthony’s LeMax and related collection.

Not done yet, still more.

More trivets and cloth things I’ve made in Christmasy fabrics, because arts and crafts, yawn. I mean, yay.

The peace message on the hearth.

The advent calendar, which I bought for something like 2 dollars at Target one year.

The giant nutcracker, who just today threatened to haunt Nick’s nightmares if Nick breaks him. (“What does ‘haunt nightmares’ mean, mommy?”)

And three more in diminishing order.

That little red bowl to the left of the crackers contains caramel chocolates, which Jesse left for the elves. (Say “crackers contains caramel chocolates” many times, over and over again.)

The elf visitation is an unfortunate tradition that developed spontaneously a few years ago. Apparently the elves like to come into our house on random evenings for treats. Jesse leaves them notes with the treats.

“Thank you for giving us great presents at Christmas!” I don’t yet know what the note inside the envelope says. I love that Jesse is being so appreciative before the fact. I thought for sure the treat and note would be received well, but Anthony and I fell asleep early and, interestingly enough, the elves did not come. The bowl and note were untouched this morning, much to Jesse’s quiet dismay. I opined that maybe the elves were busy elsewhere cheering up sad kids, or making toys. Maybe decorating would inspire them to stop by tonight! We’ll see.

Meanwhile, my kids are really enjoying the kitsch and Christmas cheer all over the house. Here they are, basking in the glow of all the decorations as they stare at their iPads. It makes all my hard work worthwhile.

When Anthony and I were in our 20’s and both still in grad school, we shared a tiny apartment on Swann Street in Washington, D.C., just a few blocks from Dupont Circle. Anthony worked full-time and I did some part-time teaching, but we were very broke. And also very cheap. Still, I wanted a Christmas tree. But Anthony was a stubborn curmudgeon. We won’t even be here on Christmas, he argued, rolling his eyes. Why waste money on a tree? What’s the point?

What’s the point? What’s the point???

I remember being very, very sad. But Anthony really didn’t want to get a tree, and rationally I saw his point, and also it wouldn’t feel holly jolly to have a tree filling up our living room while Anthony grumbled about it. So I let it go. It was a win for Mr. Curmudgeon, Mr. Grumpy-in-Training.

One dark cold night, just a few days before Christmas, Anthony walked in from work dragging a small fir tree behind him. It was no more than 3 or 4 feet tall, with dry needles and busted branches. He explained that he couldn’t bear my disappointment. On his way home, he happened to walk past a guy selling a few little trees, leftover dregs at the end of the season. Anthony forked over forty dollars and carried the tree home. It was highway robbery, and probably more money than we spent on a week of food.

I was delighted. We walked a few blocks over to Ace Hardware on 17th Street and bought a tree stand and a string of lights, a couple boxes of the cheapest plasti-glass ball ornaments we could find (2 dozen in all), a really cheap little set of tempura paints, and some glitter. We ran back home and decorated the ornaments so they wouldn’t be so plain, and then we hung them carefully on the tree.

It was a really pathetic, beautiful little tree, a Charlie Brown tree for sure, the first Christmas tree Anthony and I shared as a family of two. We still get a lot of joy out of that tree.

* * * *

My mom has always taken great care in decorating her Christmas trees. She has a special ornament for each year in which one of her grandchildren was born, ornaments that were gifts in particular years or from particular people, ornaments that Dad gave her that made her laugh. Decorating the tree is a historical and emotional journey for her.

By the time I was in high school, my brothers weren’t around for tree trimming. Dad would string up the lights, and then Mom and I would do the ornaments. In those few hours, she would share her journey with me in quiet conversations.

When I was younger, there were some ornaments I thought belonged in the trash — nasty, stained things that lost their glimmer long before I could even remember. I didn’t understand why Mom, who likes everything to be fresh and nice, would put up busted ornaments.

I particularly remember the ones Mom called “pregnant angels,” a set of three little angels with bulging tummies and knotted hair, their plastic bodies discolored with age, half their arms missing. Mom was so fond of those broken-down angels. During one of our ornament journeys, she explained that Dad gave them to her the year she was pregnant with me; hence, pregnant angels. I could tell from the way she spoke that it must have been a happy, special time in their long life together. The angels belonged on her Christmas tree, always.

So too, every year Anthony and I put up what’s left of the ornaments from our first tree. Many of them have shattered over the years; they’re desperately fragile with age. We hang the remaining handful up high, where the kids can’t reach them. Most of the paint has fallen off. They’re ugly and broken things, but they still cast a spell on me, drawing a bright line of light and memory through the curving dimness of lost days, straight to that little Christmas tree Anthony brought me on Swann Street, almost 25 years ago. They remind me of the long arc of love that binds Anthony and me together. Every year we hang these talismans and tell Nick and Jesse the story of our first tree. We build a little bridge to the past that helped form us and them, just like my mom taught me to do.

Nick’s K4 class just started the gingerbread man unit. They read the story and then they EXPLORE the hell out of it for a couple weeks. They do art activities, they run around the building being chased by various creatures who want to eat G Man, they brainstorm ways he can get away.

For homework, Nick had to decorate a little fellow and then suggest a way for him to escape being eaten. Nick decided to cover him with cotton balls so that he’d be disguised as a white poodle. Nick recommended that G Man climb a tree, but only if the hunter chasing him can’t climb. Otherwise, hide in snowy plants where you blend in. Be very still.

Nick isn’t troubled by G Man. I think he readily accepts, as I used to do, that it’s just a stupid fairy tale. Whatever.

My point of view changed when Jesse got to K4 and faced the gingerbread man unit. She unraveled. She would fall to keening in the classroom. She screamed her way through the school hallways in utter terror as other kids laughed happily, because she was told they were being chased by creatures who wanted to EAT THEM.

It took time and patience for us to tease it out of Jesse. She couldn’t understand why this little cookie person had to be eaten. And why did they have to bring it up every day, reminding her again and again of the horrifying and inevitable doom G Man faces, filling her nightmares with images of his head being bitten off? What was wrong with her classmates and teacher, that they found it FUNNY that G Man was tormented, chased, tricked, killed??

When it was her turn to offer a strategy for G man’s survival, Jesse took it seriously, though her final suggestion was simple: “cover yourself with snow and then the fox will not eat you.” It was an imperative. The G Man needed to make it out alive, just once.

He never did, of course. I remember quite clearly how Jesse’s teacher thought this episode was a good illustration of some of Jesse’s issues, as in, aha there’s something wrong with her. But I think Jesse was right, not wrong. In a season of alleged love, generosity, and hope, when we supposedly celebrate new beginnings and life, what the fu@* is up with the G Man story? Why is it okay to laugh at his demise? It’s twisted.

Sure, the Gingerbread man is obnoxious and annoying. So what? Let’s let him escape this year and live happily ever after, somewhere in Europe in a cookie protection program.

I have a love-hate relationship with my in-laws, who are pathologically practical. Christmas gifts are one looming aspect of that cycle.

Gift-giving in my family has always been something of a free-for-all. You get what you get, based largely on whatever inspiration moves the giver, and that’s part of what makes Christmas magical and awesome. Duds? Doesn’t happen. A gift can never be a dud; just comedy. We embrace the gift of the giving as much as the physical gift itself, because we know which matters more.

Anthony’s family is at the far opposite end of the whimsy spectrum. When we were younger, the Cross clan would go to an outlet mall in New Jersey on Christmas Eve day. We would walk into shops and point to desirable things (clothes, shoes, socks) in line-of-sight of a witness, who would in turn go find the gift purchaser and tell him or her what to buy. We were required to make like it was a secret. Then we’d all drive back to Anthony’s parents’ house and wrap the gifts (secretly) to place under the tree. On Christmas morning we slowly opened them one at a time, feigning surprise and saying things like, “oh how lovely. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

When Anthony and I stopped being available for the shopping expeditions, I was required to tell Anthony’s mum what I wanted for a gift, in awkward telephone conversations. It made me feel like I was nine, sitting on creepy Santa’s lap — but I tried my best to offer legitimate options. It always got mixed up.

One year I asked for “kitchen sheers.” Mum seemed to think that was odd. I didn’t get her reaction until I unwrapped the gift and discovered chicken sheers. Hearing loss can make for complications.

Frequently mum would answer my requests with dismissive comments like, “Hmp. I don’t know where to get that.” Or her best comeback ever: “No. I don’t want to shop for that. I won’t get you that.” (Imagine these words with a deep-throated English accent for best effect.)

It wasn’t about what I wanted after all. It was about what she would enjoy shopping for. So it turned into this strange chore: what could I tell Anthony’s mom to get for me that she would like to get for me?

Eventually it grated on me so badly that I told Anthony I refused to play the game any more. I would tell him some stuff I could actually use, and if he felt like it he could deal with his mom. Or not. Whatever.

One year I had nothing, no ideas, but I always like kitchen tools so I suggested an immersion blender. In his diplomatic role, Anthony reported back that mum had one that she received as a gift, but which she had never used. She wanted to know if it would offend me to receive a re-gift? Of course not, I told him. I don’t need her to spend money on me.

Christmas morning came. I opened the gift from my in-laws. Sure enough, there was the immersion blender. “Never used” was apparently idiomatic. The tool was used. Parts were missing, and whatever remained was haphazardly shoved back in the box. It was visibly unclean, with food stains and all. I guess I was put in my right place with that gift.

Meanwhile, mum has perfected the art of gift-asking. Duds are not allowed. She apparently spends significant time selecting the gifts she will receive. One year she gave me the catalog name, PLU number, color and size of the clothing item she wanted. All I had to do was go on line and enter the information. She even gave me the URL. It was like a middle school computer lab exercise. Another year she wanted a personal training session. She gave Anthony the gym phone number and the trainer’s name, and the exact amount of money to expend for the amount of training she sought.

Bah. I think I need to get on the bandwagon this year, for diplomatic reasons. I think I know what I want. I want a small saucepan with rounded sides, stainless steel or copper, so I can make sauces and such without having to root around in the corners and seams of my current saucepan options. Now all I have to do is shop heartily for it, find a URL and a PLU, and have Anthony invite mum to go for it. If that doesn’t work, I can always order it myself, send her the receipt and seek Christmas reimbursement. The check will come in 7 to 10 business days.

Everyone wants to talk about giving THANKS this time of year, being thankful for this and that. It’s the HOLIDAY SEASON, let’s all pretend the world is better for the next 20 to 30 days than it really is! People are actually awesome!

At the tae kwon do studio, they’re making a thankfulness chain. Every time we go, we’re supposed to write something we’re thankful for on a little strip of paper, and then they’re making a linked paper chain that goes around the wall. Jesse’s really good at it. She can always come up with something she’s thankful about — friends, family, moments of patience, the weather, life. Nick — who is pretty darn happy most of the time — not so much.

“What are you thankful for today, Nick?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?”

“Candy.”

We’ve always worked hard to help Jesse see the brighter side. She was born a sad, self-critical, tortured little thing inside, an old soul who sees all the hurting around her, the misfits and meanness that seem to give so much ugly shape to human relations. She was full of a story recently about a little boy Dan (not really, but I can’t use his real name) at her school who she says is autistic. I don’t know how she would conclude that; but I know from observing him and chatting with his mom that he does have some differences and disabilities. Dan wanted to play with Jesse and some other little girls at recess one day. Jesse was totally fine with it; she includes, and she’s untroubled by differences (she has her own, though they don’t fit well in a DSM niche). Jesse noticed right away that the other girls were “irritated” by Dan’s behaviors; he was crunching the crust of snow all wrong and saying the wrong things. So Jesse reached out even harder to include him and help him be confident joining in whatever make-believe game they were working their way through.

As Jesse told me the story, I sensed that she was pretty disappointed by her friends. There was a time (not so long ago) when this would have really laid waste to Jesse for days,  as she struggled to understand why her friends were “bad”, if she was “bad” for playing with them, if she should have called them out, turned them in, done more to stand up for Dan.  But she’s turned a corner for now. Even more than disappointment, she felt some small pride in herself, which was a beautiful thing to see. And there was a nice epilogue, which Jesse told me in a way that suggested a punch line, a moral lesson. At the end of the school day, Jesse was walking down the hall with all her stuff when she heard someone call her name from behind. It was Dan, running to catch up with her.

Jesse instinctively knows that this is something to be thankful for, though the reasons why may still be just an inchoate idea in her heart. She connected with a little boy who lives in an alienated place, who doesn’t quite fit in, who gets made fun of and bullied. She’s the same as him, just more high-functioning. I think what filled my heart the most about her story was that she didn’t seem to be patronizing Dan. She was just pleased with herself for bringing another kid a spot of happiness, and she was glad to have a new friend whose smiling face lifts her up a little. Now that’s something I can be thankful for too.

Since Jesse was about 5, I’ve dreamed of a time when she could handle after-school activities without degenerating into a strange, writhing, noisy mass of anxiety, panic, and tics. We tried a few different things when she was really little – ballet, soccer, music class, violin, gymnastics, ee tee see – and we consistently failed. I used to listen enviously to parents talking about sports leagues, gymnastics tournaments, regular play dates, horse riding lessons. None of it was for us.

Jesse broke me completely, leaving me ripe to catch an extreme case of second-child syndrome. I never signed Nick up for anything except private swim lessons. But this fall everything changed. We’re IN. Jesse joined the kids’ swim team at our gym and she takes diving lessons. She and Nick take private swim lessons and do tae kwon do.

This is a light load by a lot of modern parents’ reckonings, but I’m sub-standard. I think it’s insanity. Extracurriculars take up four weeknights for Jesse, two overlapping weeknights for Nick, Saturday mornings for both. The fifth weekday afternoon in Jesse’s schedule is reserved for the shrink. Then there are the little extras – belt testing, weekend tournaments, meets, random events. And the time I spend putting together bags and making sure everyone has their gear and snacks and so on. And also there’s the laundry, a solid 4 extra loads a week, which is like four straws on the broken laundry camel’s back.

Have I ever bothered to tell you just how MUCH laundry Jesse’s OCD generates? Some days I go into the laundry room in the basement, open the door of the laundry chute, and brace myself in numb horror as an avalanche of clothing quite literally crashes over me. My only wish in those moments is for no stanky underwear to touch my face.

And of course there’s the expense of all these activities. I’m spending hundreds and hundreds of dollars a month on basic fees, plus extras. I had to on-line-order the swim team uniform for Jesse. It cost FIFTY FOUR dollars (plus tax and shipping), but the European sizing is totally off the wall so the first suit I got her comes down to practically her mid-thigh. She tried to wear it anyway to a swim practice. She reported back that her boobs came out (she’s 9, it’s not a big deal yet) and the sag on her butt made it look like she pooped her pants (now that was untenable). So I had to order her another suit that’s smaller, and I can no longer return the giganto-suit, and that’s a lot of money down the drain.

Maybe I’ll just give Jesse the smaller swimsuit for Christmas.

Tae kwon do is even more of a budget sucker. Each time we do a belt test, it’s fifty bucks a pop. Tournament was seventy a pop. Now that we’re out of the virgin phase, we have to start sparring. That means sparring equipment times three (for me too). I ordered it last week during the studio’s 2-day sale. A whopping fifteen percent discount, so I only spent $580-something! Woo hoo!!

I think that shit is going under the tree too. The kids have been asking me to get them the sparring gear. I’ll just tell them we can’t afford it, and then they’ll be so happy on 12/25. I finally understand why parents give their kids socks and underwear for Christmas.

Why did I ever dream of extracurriculars? It’s almost enough to make me nostalgic for the days when Jesse was a complete lunatic. My Christmas shopping budget is feeling as cramped as my schedule.

This is it, December 1 and I have just 24 days until the Big Scary Red Man breaks into my home and fills it with useless crap, much to the short term delight of my kids.

But first BSRM will threaten and intimidate the kids for several weeks, demanding that they not pout, cry, shout, or be naughty — that they stop acting like kids — or else they face the doom of NO TOYS. Instead, they must pretend they’re lobotomized drones, tucking their self-esteem issues and imperfections away in the dark corners of their hearts to fester into adulthood; and they must write a beggar’s letter to BSRM asking for trinkets and baubles, because they can’t ask for really amazing and important things like world peace or an effective ebola vaccine or an end to religious hostility or world-wide equality for women or food for all the hungry kids. BSRM is just a toy-making elf, after all, whose once-a-year delivery service has somehow come to be conflated with all that is goodness and kindness in human nature.

Still, how come BSRM gets all the credit? Why not me? I’d like to have Jesse and Nick fawn all over me, with my huge gut popping and hair all over my face and a PIPE to smoke, for god’s sake.

The kids would blow several gaskets if they had to connect all that unbounded and whimsical generosity with me. I’m just the bitch who makes the food, does the laundry, cleans the house, wipes the asses, helps with the homework, provides taxi service, schedules life, and disciplines the little shits to make sure they’re ship-shape for BSRM’s Christmas Coming, grumbling all the while about the marginal levels of intellectual stimulation I extract from these activities.

I don’t even want to say BSRM’s name out loud. I’m tired of being used by The Man. Like the peeps who basked in the auras of Mia Hamm and Tiger Woods, I want to own the cultural consciousness that has been filtered and concentrated into the shape of BSRM. I want to stand up and speak — in a voice that rings across the tiny wannabe mountains of Wisconsin — the words that will empower me and join me to the gestalt of happy little children reveling in the magic of Christmas:

I AM SANTA CLAUS.

I. Am. Santa Claus.

i am santa claus

* * * *

Oh fu^* it. That’s not doing anything for me. I can make it through another 24 days of secrets and lies. I don’t look good in fire-engine red and a beard anyway. I’m good.