My husband and I could almost hear the collective uh-oh when we asked the kids to sit down for a family meeting.

“We’re going to have to cut back on Christmas this year,” my husband said, as the gasps went up.

“It’s only partly because of money,” I said. “It’s also because we think there are better ways to celebrate.” (See this article…)

A hush fell as the kids said not a word.

Then one by one, beginning with the eldest, and trickling down through the middle and to the youngest, the three of them began to nod their heads.

“All right,” said one, shrugging his shoulders.

“Fine with me,” said the other.

“OK,” said the youngest.

Huh?

In our family, Christmas is presents and presents is Christmas. The kids wake to Santa’s unwrapped presents and an overstuffed stocking. We have breakfast, and then begins the ritual gift exchange, as the five of us spend four hours opening at least a dozen modest presents from each other and another half dozen from extended family. Each gift-giving takes several minutes, as the small gift is given, then opened, then savored, while other family members look on.

My kids have always loved this ritual and tradition. They look forward to it all year. And now they’re telling me they’re OK with cutting back on it?

“I guess I just don’t need that much,” the eldest said. “Too many things complicate my life.”

“I can’t really think of anything I need that much either,” the middle child said.

I was stunned at the acquiescence.

And yet the more I think about it, the more I realize that the joy of presents might have nothing to do with the presents themselves.

It’s that for one short block of time, our family stops.

No cell phones, no computers or texting friends. It’s just us, connected, unencumbered and together in our PJs in a tiny corner of our living room. We put a fire in the fireplace and Christmas music on the stereo. We are comfortable, safe, healthy, warm, as we truly savor each other’s presence, one by one, one at a time, and what brings that person joy.

My husband and I are determining our next step in this recreation of Christmas. We are thinking that maybe we will ask each family member what activity they would like to lead on Christmas — whether it’s building a jigsaw puzzle like we always manage to do sometime during the season, going into the community to perform even a small miracle, or playing Rock Band together, which I just bet will be the 11-year-old’s choice. The idea is not to forego presents altogether. The idea is to pay attention to what’s important to each individual, to celebrate ourselves as individuals and collectively, to fold in together as a family on that one day when we allow it.

Stay tuned, as this is work in progress. I will keep you posted. Meanwhile, I hold in my heart this treasured commitment from the book, “ Unplug the Christmas Machine: A Complete Guide to Putting Love and Warmth Back Into the Season”:

The Christmas Pledge:

- To remember those people who truly need my gifts.
- To express my love for family and friends in more direct ways.
- To rededicate myself to the spiritual growth of my family.
- To examine my holiday activities in light of the true spirit of Christmas.
- To initiate one act of peacemaking within my circle of family and friends.

- Debra-Lynn

My grandfather was quite a character. Smart, charming, opinionated, proud, hard working, cynical, and funny. He had the gifts of a sharp wit and storytelling. Since his death about five years ago, I have truly missed him.

One memory of him that stands out to me, because it happened so frequently, was sitting around the dining room table and talking. Dinner would be long over yet everyone would stay seated. The children would drift away in waves, based upon age. The older we got, the longer we’d hang around for the conversation. There was a lot of political talk (mostly critical) about the general state of affairs both locally and nationally. That’s where I learned about not only current events but also family stories, like how a great uncle dislocated a shoulder from cranking up his early Ford car. I had that same feeling of awe that my kids get when I tell them that I only had three channels on my TV and no remote when I was growing up.

Despite some hard times in his life, my grandfather was a joyful man. He laughed often and delighted in teasing his grandchildren. And he was even more delighted when we got old enough to “give it right back.” Joke Christmas gifts, funny ecards, and lots and lots of ribbing each other. All in love.

One of the expressions I heard frequently growing up was, “I wouldn’t tease you if I didn’t love you.” Growing up in my house, we all pretty much had to learn how to take a joke. Thank goodness.

After his death, I received an inheritance. Not a huge amount but enough to make me consider how to wisely spend it. I wanted to somehow honor my grandfather with the money. It would have been easy and perhaps prudent to pay off some bills. Instead, my husband and I went table shopping!

We bought a great big huge table with lots of chairs. It’s about 9 feet long and almost 4 feet wide. It’s awesome. It has a rustic look because I wanted it to be used and enjoyed. I didn’t want to worry about every scratch. When we bought it, I was hoping that my family would sit around it for hours, just talking. I pictured my kids doing homework and working on crafts. And that’s exactly what happened.

Yes, my table is often a mess. It usually has craft supplies and homework projects spread all over. But, most evenings everything is put away so that we can all sit down together. I think that would have pleased my grandfather.

Dinner is a great time to gather and talk about what went on that day. I find that I often can’t get my children to slow down enough to tell me more than the basics of their day until we sit down to dinner. There’s something about breaking bread together that encourages real talk. The sharing of thoughts rather than just a rundown of the day. If we don’t have meaningful conversations with the people we love, how can we have meaningful relationships with them? In addition, there’s research that shows children who sit down and eat regular meals with their parents eat healthier, get better grades, and have lower rates of smoking, drinking and drug use.

My kids know the origin of the table and our reasons for purchasing such a large one. They know many of my grandfather’s stories. Mostly, they know how much I value family. As you sit down around your table this holiday season, give thanks for the wonderful gift of family and the conversations that are shared.

-Kay

Five days before Thanksgiving, a horde of women came marching into my house.

Like an Army they came, with rags and buckets and industrial strength vacuum cleaners.

On hands and knees, they scrubbed my floors and baseboards.

They stood on chairs and did my windows

They even cleaned the grill of my refrigerator and the gunk on my stove. Yuk.

Two hours later, my kitchen cupboards were free of catsup stains. The living room was dust- and cat hair-free. Every mirror was shiny, every floor, eat-off-of clean for the 25 guests I will have in my house come Turkey Day.

Such is the magic of the CCC. Not to be confused with Roosevelt’s Civilian Conservation Corps, we are the Community Cleaning Chickadees, a group of eight friends who don’t really LIKE to clean but who like the EFFECTS of cleaning – kind of like my fellow blogger, Kay, who doesn’t like to cook but who likes to eat.

The CCC, or the Tri-C Club, started when one of us was getting married at her house. We friends didn’t want her worrying about her dirty kitchen floor even as she was saying “I do.” And so, instead of throwing a wedding shower for her the week before her wedding, we had Bloody Marys, snacks and Pine Sol. We had so much fun that we looked around the room after it was over and said, “Hey, who’s next?”

Next was Lisa, who was having surgery in three weeks, who, let’s just say, needed to come home to a more pristine environment for recovery. Then was Abby who wanted to paint her living room and dining room, but didn’t want to do the sanding required. Enter the Chickadees! Anne was supposed to be next; at this point we were so organized that we were going in alphabetical order.

But in the true spirit of a bunch of women who clean each other’s toilets, they let me jump ahead because I was having the most people on Thanksgiving.

The CCC is a wondrous creation. Once a month for two hours we take on the tasks that nobody likes to do by herself: Studies show that women not only like to work in community, but that they do better when they do. Everybody thus wins: My kids, cleaning their own rooms while the CCC was in action, get to see that cleaning really can be fun. We women get community, camaraderie and new lyrics to old songs: “We are the CCC! Get up everybody and clean!” (Think “We Are Family!” by Sister Sledge.) Or “Clean up! Clean up! All you women! With pretty hair!” (Recall Barney & Friends.)

Now all I need to know: Is there a Community COOKING Crew for Thanksgiving Day?

- Debra-Lynn

I couldn’t agree more with Dorothy. I remember getting off of the school bus as a kid and feeling such a sense of peace and contentment as I walked up my driveway. I was home. I had made it through another day of teachers, class work, and figuring out my place in the social structure of school.

I heard a speaker a few years ago discuss the concept of home. She described each home as a mini culture with different expectations, rules, and norms. Imagine adapting to life in a foreign country. In a much smaller sense, any of us would have a difficult time adjusting if we were somehow plopped down into a neighbor’s family. The food would vary, the interactions differ, and there are so many small nuances that make each family unique. Shoes allowed inside the house? Favorite television shows? Brand of humor? Holiday traditions?

Even smells. When we come up with an extra article of clothing at our house left by a neighbor, my youngest will say, “let me smell it.” She can sniff it to identify whose house it came from. Scary, huh? I don’t have that particular talent but I do recognize that my house smells like home.

So, how does one create a warm and nurturing home? Well, like most anything worth having, it takes some work. Thankfully, there are resources to assist mothers in making intentional, wise decisions for her family.

I recently came across a website called MomsLikeMe that helps Cleveland moms make those informed decisions. Whether you grew up here or are a transplant like myself, I think you’ll find this site instructive and supportive. It offers online groups for moms on parenting topics such as behavior and development, activities, education, food, entertainment, health, motherhood, shopping, and a category called “my life” where you might share about your pets or perhaps grief and loss. There are such a variety of topics covered that all moms can easily find a group (or several) of interest.

I started reading about favorite local pediatricians, progressed to checking out some book clubs, and finally pulled myself away after getting some advice about curfews.

MomsLikeMe also has photo sharing, marketplace (buying or selling), coupons, and parenting videos from WKYC TV3. In addition, you can find a playgroup in your area, which I feel is critical for some mothers. Like myself, 12 years ago.

After my oldest daughter, Emily, was born I struggled in creating that sense of home that I had grown up with and wanted for my own young family. Some obstacles overwhelmed me.

First of all, we had moved to a condo weeks before Emily was born so we still had unpacked boxes. Not homey. Secondly, my husband was working 70-hour weeks. Thirdly, I lived on the opposite coast from all extended family. Fourthly, the only friends I had made in the area were work friends. Not the kind of friend I would call and complain to about baby spit up and exhaustion. Lastly, I had just had a C-section and had a baby who cried heartily and frequently.

I was not exactly in the frame of mind to create a home. At least not the kind I wanted. Through the haze of new motherhood, I realized that I needed to make some connections. Relationships that would boost me up and support me through these challenges. I joined a playgroup and it made all the difference. I met other moms who were struggling with the same parenting worries and experiencing the same joys. Women who were available at all hours to laugh me out of a grumpy mood, meet at the park, give me advice or provide the occasional babysitting. Moms Like Me.

Now, I watch my three girls run up my driveway to our home with that same enthusiasm and joy that I so well remember from my childhood.

-Kay

I find one of the tragedies of modern times to be the loss of the extended family presence in everyday life. An important system in human society, it is no longer a certainty in a global economy that has people moving all over the world, far from the family who bore and raised and loved them.

As someone who left my family of origin years ago, I feel this loss most dramatically during the holidays – in particular, Thanksgiving.

This is one holiday that has nothing to do with commercial trappings. No gifts required. Just the gift of family, as many as can fit around the table. And yet my extended family, and my husband’s, are hundreds of miles away from where we live now in Ohio with our three children.

Some years, we are able to come together, one group traveling to join the other. Other years, we don’t have the money, or our car is on its last leg, or our kids are older and too busy to travel.

This particular year we knew we wouldn’t be going anywhere, and nobody would be coming to us. We knew we would mope if we didn’t do something. And so my college professor husband sent a mass e-mail to the graduate students in his political science department, many of them internationals, inviting those without a Thanksgiving home to join ours. Very quickly, we heard from students from Turkey, Russia, Peru and France, many of them isolated here with their own young families, many of them eager to engage with other families on a day that is a reminder of their own mothers and fathers, grandparents, aunts and uncles an ocean away.

We received one e-mail with regrets, from a former U.S. soldier who has his own family now, but who wrote to tell us of a holiday season several years ago,

“I remember being a soldier in basic training in Anniston, Alabama. While given some time off to relax and some rare off-base passes, many of us entered the ‘civilian’ community during the holidays. While at the mall in uniform (we were not allowed to have civilian clothes yet) we had a number of families approach us and invite us into their homes. In five years in the Army, I was never home for Christmas. But all but one, I was in someone else’s home for Christmas. I was very moved by the kindness of these folks and have tried to remember that generosity in my own dealings with people today.”

I don’t know where we’re going to seat 25 people in our small home. I worry that we won’t have enough water glasses or that not everybody will like mashed potatoes and gravy. Many of our new friends will make the special dishes of their countries, while we make the foods of ours. At the request of our Turkish Muslim guests, I will roast a “kosher” turkey, which I have learned means the bird has been blessed by clergy and slaughtered under particular circumstances. I’m happy to learn of this tradition, as I imagine this is a good and respectful animal practice regardless of religion.

What I do know is that we are opening ourselves to something new. We are redefining family on a day when family is rich with meaning. We are pioneering a wonderful new option for ourselves on this Thanksgiving Day, much like they did at that first celebration in 1621 at Plymouth Rock. The importance of blood kin notwithstanding, it’s a brand new world, and we may never look back.

I do not like to cook. I’ve only really acknowledged this recently because I feel like I should like to cook. Other people seem to, and I certainly like to eat, so where is the disconnect? For me, I think it’s partly because I have to prepare meals everyday for a somewhat picky crowd. Every darn day.

If I only had to worry about, say, Wednesday dinner each week, I could pour over recipes in preparation and find something that would appeal to everyone. I could sauté, braise, and roast to my heart’s content. But when it’s a daily occurrence, it becomes a chore. And rarely am I solely focused on cooking. Like most moms, I’m often multitasking between homework assistance, settling quarrels, and our constantly ringing phone. Then when the meal is served, there is usually at least one child who is less than enthusiastic about it. Where’s the joy in that?

I even have a beautiful recipe box that my husband made for me for Mother’s Day. My older kids copied over my recipes onto large index cards while my youngest decorated the backs with pictures they printed out from Webshots. Still, nothing.

But I do love to bake. It’s not daily and everyone appreciates the end product. You can’t go wrong with a cookie. So, when I received an e-mail asking if I would prepare something for the teachers at my daughter’s school to eat on conference night, I was happy to comply when I saw that desserts were needed. However, I apparently wasn’t quick enough, because I received an e-mail back saying that desserts were covered but could I please send in a crock-pot of soup.

I responded with a hearty “sure” since I didn’t want to admit my culinary inadequacies to those PTO moms. Nothing against PTO. I’m a member, myself. Just some of those Moms are so bubbly and well, perfect. After I hit the send button, I regretted it. I don’t make soup. I Googled “soup recipes” but they all required so much chopping and dicing and time. I called my neighbor and asked if it was tacky to pour canned soup into my crock-pot and just add some noodles and chicken to make it look homemade.

She responded by saying, “No, um, that’s fine. But I have a really easy soup recipe. You just roast chicken, shred the meat, cut up carrots,” and that’s when my mind started glazing over. I just don’t enjoy cooking. Period. I wish I did.

So, I was debating about what to do about the whole soup thing and I had a brainstorm. One of my very favorite, easiest recipes is called chicken chili. Chili’s close enough, right? So, on conference night I made it, took it to the school, and put this little label on it that said, “Mexican Chicken Soup.” Brilliant.

The very next day, a woman from the PTO called me and told me that she had received multiple e-mails from the teachers and the principal requesting the recipe because my soup was such a hit. She asked if she could have the recipe and would it be okay with me if she forwarded it throughout the school district.

After I yelled, “IN YOUR FACE, PTO!” (inside my head), I agreed. My only hesitation was the recipe is so darn easy. Now the teachers would know that I hadn’t been slaving away all day to create the perfect soup. But, I happily shared it and I’ll share it with you too because even mothers who like to cook need a few easy recipes for those busy days.

Chicken Chili (or Mexican Chicken Soup)

2 cans Great Northern Beans (undrained)
2 cans of canned chicken (undrained)
1 16 oz jar mild salsa
1 package (2 cups) shredded Mexican blend cheese

Mix all together in crock-pot and cook on low 3-4 hours. It is delicious and easy. My kind of recipe.

While I was searching for a soup recipe I came across a few good websites regarding food and children. Nutrition Explorations is a site for kids to check out and learn about nutrition. It has some cute activities and recipes that my 4th grader had fun with. Kids Food is a site that is for parents. It has ideas on how to get your children engaged in cooking and also kid-friendly recipes. And after looking at the Food Network website, it even made a non-chef type like myself feel like putting on my apron.

Bon appetit!

-Kay

I’m no longer a practicing Catholic.

But now that the election is over, I may need to confess my sins.

“Bless me, Father,” I would say in the confessional, “for I have said 400 unloving things during political debates, rallies and conventions. Out loud. In front of my children.”

It’s important to note here that I am generally a mother who prides herself on practicing and preaching tolerance whenever applicable. I don’t let my children say bad things about people who are different than they, nor so much as kill a spider that finds its way into the house.

I am also a mother who strode up and down in front of the TV during political conventions and debates, yelling intolerant comments at various and specific candidates, while openly sneering at them in front of my children.

Could it help to know I’m not the only sinner in the room?

“My son said watching me watch the (other) convention, was like watching Dad watch college football on Saturday,” said my friend, Megan. “I kept telling him we have to understand what’s good about all the candidates. But my son says, ‘Then why did you always yell at Sarah Palin when she was on television, Mom?’”

Let me also say that in addition to practicing and preaching tolerance, my friend Megan and I routinely practice other good habits that make us role models for our children. In fact, about the worst I do in front of my kids is sneak my own popcorn into movies. I consistently drive 1-4 miles over the speed limit. OK, and as long as I’m coming clean, I say bad words on particularly significant occasions, like the other day when the lid exploded off the blender, spraying scalding potato soup all over me.

I promise to bring these items before Father while I’m in there.

Meanwhile, I know that part of being cleansed of sin is vowing not to commit them anymore. And therein is going to be our little problem: I’ll do much better saying 400 Hail Marys for penance than going back into the world with a renewed commitment not to say ugly things about people who I think are saying ugly things. That’s the funny thing about my breed of intolerance. My intolerance is almost always in response to other people’s ugliness. Shouldn’t that be OK? Or is this just moral justification, much like saying it’s OK to take in my own popcorn because they are price-gauging me with theirs?

“I’m sorry,” I kept telling my kids, especially my impressionable preteen, even as I was yelling at the TV. I’m not perfect, and neither are the Amish, who reportedly sew the tiniest mistake into each beautifully accomplished quilt. They make the mistake intentionally as noting that only God is perfect.

The same could be said when I’m yelling at the TV. I am not God — and neither is that &^%$#$%B on C-Span.

- Debra-Lynn

One of my favorite parts of watching my children grow is their emergence of language and how they almost magically internalize all of the rules and vocabulary necessary in order to speak English. While they’re learning, little kids all have words they say that aren’t quite right, even though you know what they mean. When my kids misspeak, I often correct them or use the word they’re looking for in a sentence of my own. Before I know it, I’ve forgotten all of the adorable mistakes they used to make daily.

My five-year-old, Olivia, still occasionally says “hims” instead of “his.” As in, “this is hims book.” It’s rare now, but every once in a while she slips back into the pronoun confusion stage. It just sounds so sweet to my ears. Otherwise, Olivia has pretty much mastered the major grammatical rules. However, she still has some vocabulary that she confuses or just fabricates. For example, she calls a sneeze an “ahchoo,” as in “I feel like I have to ahchoo.” Another is she calls the dentist the tooth fairy despite understanding the distinction. But, for whatever reason, she has always called our dentist the tooth fairy. I guess it helps that we have a female dentist. Now, the entire family has taken to calling our dentist the tooth fairy. And we probably always will. Let me explain.

We have some words that we’ve adopted and made part of our family lexicon, i.e. “packaback” for “backpack” and “comfortable” for “comforter.” These are invented words that we use so frequently that they are accepted parts of our conversation. Not only do we retain the words but we also hold onto some memories as each has a cute story behind it. Furthermore, it encourages that sense of team that I try to build into our family unit. It’s similar to having inside jokes. Now, we don’t go around talking baby talk or anything like that. It’s just the occasional word or phrase. I’ll share two of my favorites.

When my oldest daughter, Emily, was about two, she was (still is) a very picky eater. After learning that it wasn’t acceptable to say, “yuck” she cleverly came up with the oft repeated, “it’s not my favorite.” It’s so polite that it’s hard to be offended. We have generalized this expression in our home to refer to not only food but most anything: books, movies, clothes, and even the occasional person. It’s rare for one of my kids to say, “I don’t like whatever.” But, you often hear, “it’s not my favorite.” We all know what it really means.

My second story involves my daughter, Grace. When she was about three, she was leaning over an infant, studying her. The baby reached up, grabbed a hunk of hair, and pulled hard. Grace was in a difficult position. The baby was hurting her, yet she knew she couldn’t just haul off and slug her. So, in a very deep, low, strangely quiet voice she said, “Don’t do that baby.” Like she was in the mafia or something.

So, “don’t do that baby,” is thrown out in conversation frequently. If one of my daughters is about to do something unwise, that’s my comment. Tone and all.

I believe by retaining a few adorable, funny verbal mistakes or cute phrases and turning them into part of your family’s language, it is unifying. It’s like a secret code.

After all, your family is a very exclusive club. By special invitation only.

-Kay

Last month, I wrote about the Parent-Teacher Association meeting. I shared with you how stunned I was at the childish behavior that ensued. (Here’s the original post)

Two weeks ago, the minutes from the meeting came out and NOTHING was written in the minutes about the problem that was raised. It was as if the whole incident was erased. To top it off, nothing was noted about the issue being discussed at the next meeting (which is what the committee said they would do).

Disappointed doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings.

So here’s what I’ve learned:

• I am a Polyanna. I believe that people and groups genuinely want to improve and grow.
• Being a Polyanna is lonely.

What keeps running through my mind are my children’s voices “but that’s not fair,” “but that isn’t nice,” “but you told us we’re supposed to work together.”

All true. It isn’t fair, it isn’t nice and it clearly is not working together. Unfortunately, the world isn’t always fair, nice or cooperative.

So what do I do now? Give up? Uh, no! I will continue to teach my children that there are issues worth fighting for (just prepare yourself to face apathy in others).

That Polyanna side of me wants to keep fighting for justice. That Polyanna side of me believes if I just figure out the right way to discuss the problem that we can work together…

And so, I remain dedicated to working together (or, more truthfully, to find a way to get the group to believe it is worth it to work together!). I called another parent to prepare for the meeting and we’re putting together a committee….there is strength in numbers! If we join together, we’ll be heard and understood. If we stick with it, we’ll prevail.

Polyanna’s search for justice continues….

It’s the first week of November. I walk into the department store to pay a bill, and…uh oh…oh no… is it…could it be…is that what I think it is wafting out of the sound system?

I refuse. I will not be so weak as to allow the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and ambient lighting seduce me into Christmas shopping without my consent. Quickly, I pay my bill. I hurry out of the store without spending another dime.

Let me suggest that leaving a store in November, empty-handed, while Here We Come A-Caroling  is playing, is no easy feat for a red-blooded American woman.

This is particularly not easy for a self-proclaimed former Christmas Queen. Actually, I am merely a descendant. My mother was the original reigning monarch: She started Christmas-shopping/baking/wrapping/crafting in September and didn’t stop until she shop-hopped the after-Christmas sales on Dec. 26. She did up the homemade thing big: icebox fruitcakes and bourbon balls, wreaths out of Styrofoam cups, tabletop trees out of green and red netting. She once locked herself in her bedroom for 16 hours while she made tiny Barbie outfits to put under the tree, each with matching muffs, purses and hats.

By the time I had my own family, I was her able protegee, but better. I finished my shopping by Oct. 1 and my decorating by the day after Thanksgiving. I bought gifts for 32 people on both sides of the family, made 150 Christmas cards stamped with engravings, etched in wood, and hosted craft parties for three different ages of children. Most nights in December, you could see me standing over the stove making hundreds of pralines, fudge squares and lemon bars for bosses, secretaries, neighbors, the mailman and my editor. One year, I did it with a child with chicken pox strapped to my back.

For years, I wore my Christmas acumen like a soldier wears a badge of courage. My husband says he fell in love with me because of the way I do Christmas.

Then one year, I didn’t do the cards.

The next year, I dragged up only four boxes of decorations instead of the usual 12.

The year after that, I didn’t give pralines to the mailman.

Bit by bit, I began controlling Christmas instead of vice versa.

And now it’s time to tackle presents.

This will be the worst, not because we are a particularly materialistic family, but because presents are TRADITION. Presents are exciting! Presents are fun! Presents are what you get when you don’t get anything else the rest of the year: My three sisters and I hardly got so much as a pair of underwear from January to November. But on Christmas, Mama wrapped the tiniest things to be presents and stacked them halfway up the Yule trunk. It took us hours to open them, one at a time.

The tradition has continued in my own family. While all the other neighborhood kids are roller blading on their new presents in the street, we’re still in our jammies at 4 p.m. oohing over the pair of socks Aunt Susan gave Dad.

And now, I am determined to stop it, or at least cut it in half — partly because money doesn’t grow on Christmas trees, partly because my knees are getting too old to walk around Target making sure each kid has the same number of presents, partly because it just doesn’t make sense. It simply isn’t necessary. There are better ways to celebrate.

Like the little engine that could, and Barack Obama, I think I can do this.

The worst part will be getting the kids on board, two of whom I think will be OK. As for my middle child, my 16-year-old daughter, she is no American Eagle/Old Navy/Aeropostale Material Girl. But she is at the age when she attaches deep anthropological meaning to everything. If we don’t do Christmas the way we always have, then God and Motherhood are not institutionally sound. The bells won’t toll on Christmas morning. Earth will tumble into blackest space.

I plan to talk to my family very soon about my plans; I will offer a progress report in an upcoming post. Until then, I vow to keep close at hand my dog-eared copy of Unplug the Christmas Machine, a book chock full of ideas about how to disentangle from the behemoth that is Christmas materialism. I vow to keep close to my heart what it is I really want for Christmas and my family. Finally, I vow to stay far away from all stores playing Jingle Bells.

-Debra-Lynn