Oh god. Only 12 more days until Christmas. I’ve achieved panic mode. It might also be that I’m displacing some of my anxiety over tae kwon do purple belt testing tomorrow, but I don’t think so.

I have so much irrelevant holiday-related stuff to do — shopping for gifts in person and on-line (family, kids, Santa, teachers, yah yah yah), a few visits and small dinner get-togethers, meals, mince pies, cookies… I feel desperately that we need more bling on the front lawn. None of it is worthy of complaining about, but I don’t let that stop me. I get very little time to myself to accomplish things in secret.

The one really amazing thing that I never have to panic about is this, at least so far: Jesse and Nick don’t go around hunting for gifts. I don’t understand it. They don’t open closed doors and closets. When I put a sign on a door that says “DO NOT ENTER (don’t even think about it),” they actually obey.

It’s awesome. I have some enormous stuff stashed in obvious places already. I feel confident the kids won’t find anything, because they’ll never look. But I think it also means there’s something seriously wrong with them.

I better make an extra appointment with the therapist next week.

Nick walked out of school yesterday beaming with pride. A smile ear to ear, I tell you, and carrying a piece of paper.

What could it be?? I wondered. What amazing feat had he accomplished? Did he write his name correctly? Write some numbers and letters? Spell something? Add two and two? Make a pattern?

Pregnant moment of silence.

WooHOOOOOOO. YEAH! Happy dance, happy dance, happy dance. Fist pumps while spinny-jumping. Marching around the room while bellowing the theme from Star Trek Next Generation.

At five, Nick is firmly establishing that he has verrrry strong mechanical skills. Next stop, MIT.

This is just, so, awesome. It’s why we send our little ones to school. It validates all my hard work as a parent. It’s all I want for Christmas.

My brother Ted visited us last night for a few hours. He’s never visited my home before, in all our adult years. I’ve always lived so far away that it’s hard for family to get to me, and also Ted is perpetually too busy. As for the latter bit, I have full-on empathy, because it’s exactly how I felt when I worked for a monetary living.

And still, I felt like my Prodigal Brother was coming to town, and I was very happy and excited. I went shopping Sunday and I planned a special meal and I cleaned the house. I marinated a flank steak and, in honor of Wisconsin, I made a cheesy potato gratin. I baked bread and a blueberry orange bundt cake. I interrupted my work Monday afternoon to text Ted, along the lines of “we can’t wait to see you tonight!” He wrote back promptly. “It’s tomorrow Tuesday that I’m arriving.”

Phhtttthhhpphh.

I hope he liked the leftovers, anyway.

We had a great visit, despite my calendar brain fart. The kids got all over Uncle Ted, and Madeline the 6-pound poodle got all territorial. She sat on Ted, climbed on Ted, followed him around, sniffed him, licked him, glared at him. She can get weird when we have visitors and start peeing and pooing in inappropriate places, but she seemed fine.

Jesse didn’t get to her homework, so we tried to do it this morning. Unfortunately, sleep deprivation and the excitement of a familial visit didn’t mix well with tough word problems. Jesse had a full-blown meltdown, and eventually I did too. It was ugly. That kind of tension can get to the dog too.

I took some time to snuggle with Madeline this afternoon, in case she was feeling off kilter. When the alarm went off to tell me it was time to pick up the kids from school, Madeline stood up on the sofa right next to me and gagged like an emperor penguin feeding its young, and then she vomited. Damn. I swooped her onto the hardwood while I ran for paper towels, but when I got back 1.5 seconds later she had moved over to the Tibetan wool rug for a second round of yack.

Grrrrrr. Stupid fussy dog. Stupid stupid dog vomit.

Hurray for the spotbot!

What would I do without my family and my power tools?

I’m slowing down on Costco shopping, because they have too many oversized options and I end up throwing a lot out. As Anthony once said, everything comes in a three-pack, and inevitably there’s one really awful option, like the three-jar jam pack that includes strawberry, raspberry, and dingleberry flavors.

But when Christmas approaches, I look to Costco for gift ideas. They’ve got all those cookie boxes, and Harry & David gift sets, and over-packaged kids’ toys, and enormous outdoor holiday decorations… So I went on-line to shop today, which is always a mistake. I’m easily distracted when I shop on-line, because I can click my mouse sooooo fast, and then I get lost in the labyrinth. There’s an on-line “grocery and floral” menu option, which led me to ask myself, what grocery items can be sold on-line? Can I buy my seaweed snack packs on-line? Mmmm. Tempting.

But when I entered that screen room, the real bait was waiting for me. 109 items available under the category “Emergency Kits and Supplies.” Excellent! Must explore! Last year Anthony turned me on to the idea of buying an Emergency Cube of dehydrated food, which would feed our family for a full year. I had forgotten all about it until now.

What could be better than hermetically sealed, dehydrated foods for the holidays? All I have to do on Christmas day is boil some water and voila! Instead of cooking from scratch for several days before Christmas, I can spend those precious hours yelling at my kids for being overstimulated and anxious about Big Scary Red Man breaking into the house on Christmas Eve. Then on Christmas day, instead of throwing a large chunk of animal flesh in the oven and fussing about over a special meal that ends up being served cold anyway, I can focus on yelling at the kids some more for breaking half their Christmas booty already and leaving the other half all over the floor for me to step on.

I’m in. With the high quality emergency food supplies available at Costco, I’ll make a feast even our dog can enjoy by starting with this excellent meat product:

Doesn’t that look yum? That’s the premium freeze-dried variety meat pack, chicken, ground beef and roast beef. I think I’ll use all three, because these tasty meat bits are “the perfect building blocks for tasty meals in a jiffy.” I’ll serve the premium rehydrated meat over Macaroni Pasta —

— with this cheese and alfredo sauce, which “will make any ordinary plate of pasta more appetizing.” Not delicious, tasty, or amazing, mind you. Just “more appetizing.” I think they could have replaced those two words with “suck less,” but I guess that’s why I’m not in marketing.

That’s 540 servings of more appetizing alfredo sauce in the six gallon weather-proof bucket, my friends, and we only have five in the house (including the dog). So if the apocalypse comes sooner than I anticipate, I can use any leftover alfredo sauce to caulk the windows and keep out toxic air, and then I can use the empty bucket to haul water from the river, assuming it hasn’t been poisoned with radioactive sludge.

Let’s not forget veggies. Peas. Potatoes. More yum.

Maybe I can mix them together for some sort of vegetable porridge. Then I don’t have to worry about measuring the amount of boiling water I add.

By the way, why is it important to market this packaging method?

This is what I’d expect for a crate of Depends or tampons, maybe a life-time supply of preparation H for those apocalyptic hemorrhoids… But potatoes in a can? I don’t get it.

Anyway, I’m losing my way here. Oh. Dessert. Fruit of course. I guess I don’t have to stew it. Just add water.

Or maybe I’ll serve it just like they’ve shown it here. It’s like a cornucopia thing, only with cans.

Alright then. My menu is set for Christmas.

I try to read “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” to the kids every year, but I do think Dr. Seuss was unfair in making him the bad guy. If ever there was a victim of unfair treatment and the worst kind of manipulation, it’s the Grinch.

So he hates Christmas. I wonder why. The smug, self-righteous Whos all live down in this cozy little town, making noise, decorating, feasting, singing, exchanging gifts, being all full of their own awesome happy, like the worst kind of exhibitionist clique — while the poor Grinch lives in a dirty cave. Alone. (Except for his loyal dog, of course, who really ought to get more credit.) Is there any evidence that the Whos ever invited the Grinch to join them? No! They don’t seem to care at all what might be hurting inside his mind, what sadness or trauma might be driving his grumpy; they don’t make any effort to really understand him. They blame his shoes (too tight?), his head (not screwed on right?), his heart (two sizes too small?). Maybe they could have some compassion for the poor lonely guy instead of judging him and making fun of him.

After 53 years of that shit, no wonder he decides to steal all the Whos’ toys and decorations and food. If I had to survive 53 years of watching the Whos celebrate Christmas without including me, all the while mocking my attire and my body, I’d look forward to hearing those awful creatures boo-boo too.

I always love the part where the Grinch lies to Cindy Lou, that sweet little smug thing. Sure he lies to her, just like all of us who allow Santa into the house on Christmas Eve lie to our kids. What’s the difference? And am I supposed to feel sorry for her, in all her innocence? If she’s so unobservant that she can’t tell the Grinch from the real Santa, then maybe she’s the one with the head screwed on wrong.

Anyway, the Grinch proves he isn’t all bad by getting Little Cindy Lou a drink as he sends her back to bad. I think that’s quite thoughtful.

The worst part of the whole story is when the Whos start singing on Christmas morning,  It’s the ultimate act of manipulation. The Grinch took everything from them. Instead of investigating, calling the police, getting even a little frustrated, or otherwise acting like NORMAL people, they go stand outside in a big circle and SING. What a bunch of horse shit. They’re obviously faking it because they know the Grinch finally got back at them, but they aren’t going to let him win. No sir. They fight back by entrenching themselves with the same smug singing they pounded the poor Grinch with for FIFTY THREE YEARS already.

It’s so disappointing that the Grinch caves in and takes all their toys and food back, so that  they finally let him join in their Christmas games. It’s extortion: you bring us back all our shit, and we’ll let you feel like you’re one of us (at least this once – no telling what happens 365 days later). If I was the Grinch, I would have held out for more. I would have made the Whos come to me and celebrate their Christmas in my cave. With my dog.

Screw the Whos. I’m with the Grinch.

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.