We're home from Christmas in Santa Fe after a loooong New Year's Eve on the road back to Lotus. Tom had been at the wheel for over 11 hours when at midnight I kissed him on Highway 58 entering Barstow, CA, two sleeping angels in the back blissfully unaware that we were leaving 2007 rapidly behind us as so many miles of traveled asphalt while in front lay the blank canvas of 2008, ready for exploration. When we told Jordan seven hours later when she awoke that it was not only a new month but a new year, heady with enthusiasm over newly hatched resolutions involving triathlons, the bettering of ourselves, and the reduction of our collective carbon footprint, her response was all you'd expect from a nearly 5 year old girl: "January! That means it really IS almost my birthday!"

Christmas went on way too long this year as it always does - we started so early with pre-Christmas presents of advent calendars and salt and pepper shakers and Christmas dresses from wonderfully doting grandparents. As a parent, with your children on the receiving end of that much joy, it makes it esecially hard to drive home the true "reason for the season" - that it isn't all about gifts - when every day there is another box, another wonderful aunt or uncle sending something new and exciting. We have them both spend serious time and effort on thank you notes, and we try diligently to acknowledge who gave what book or toy when it's read or brought out, but the sheer volume makes it somewhat overwhelming - my father-in-law who has a relationship only with my children and not with any of his other children or grandchildren (not his choice) sent a box with 27 individually wrapped presents - and only 5 or 6 of those were for Tom or myself. Just keeping track of what he gave us is overwhelming, much less keeping track of what each of thier six grandparents, 8 aunts and uncles thought of, shoped for, bought, wrapped, and sent many miles for their enjoyment.

Rather than give in to hopelessness, I saw volume as opportunity. With 18 hours of driving in front of us, I loaded up a bag of presents and envsioned a parceling out of gifts every 90 minutes or so through the entire trip, thereby lightening our load as boxes and giftwrap were eliminated at each gas station (an action that takes another emotional toll on me at Christmas). In reality, we fell so easily into the driving through the night schedule, there were just a few hours left on Saturday to dole out gifts. There was a frantic ripping into paper and the roulette aspect of Christmas inevitable with so many presents: one of the favorite gifts this year has been a $1.45 paper streamer wand (I remember receiving them at various points throughout my childhood, they seem to break at the most opportune point of climax, just before they'd cause a huge fight or interest would fizzle out). The most promising is often the first one forgotten: out in the cold is the overwhelmingly horrible Polly Pocket Shopping Magnetic Board. Upon opening it, it ellicited excitement and the frantic dressing of the two dolls in the two favorite outfits until one didn't stick exactly right, one magnet sleeve ripped from a magnetic shirt and tragedy rapidly began to outweigh joy. Which is good, because when at 2am I accidentally had nudged the board for the fifth or sixth time causing it to scream out in a shrill and soulless voice "Polly wants to go shopping with you!" or something equally inane and completely oposite the values we're trying to instill, if I wasn't completely incapable since elementary school of even the slightest amount of litter, I would have flung it into the middle of Hwy 40 in the middle of AZ and watched in righteous yet petty joy as a semi hauled it's full load over Polly's already flat form, rendering the voice of the horrible thing forever silent.

The irony is that I think they GET the reason for the season. Their school does a fabulous job of teaching about may of the holidays people celebrate, gently and firmly redressing attention away from gifts and to wonder, joy, celebration. Our favorite part of Christmas last year was the four of us bundling into the mini van with Tom's guitar and freshly baked cookies and showing up on the doorstep of five or six completely unsuspecting friends and caroling our hearts out on Chirstmas Eve. Because this year we'd be in Santa Fe, we caroled early, and it's hard trying to check off the caroling when there's packing to do and still a few days of school to meet with open eyes after late nights on front porches. We were excited to go to Santa Fe, but there's always a strange feeling of being stretched between the past and the joy of building future tradition through the experience of being fully immersed in your own home and community. Don't worry, I get that these are wonderful issues to have at the holidays: so many relatives to share the joy with, so many homes to be at home in. We love hosting at home the best, but I love going back to NM every now and then to relive traditions there, to bring the joy of who I am now as a part of this family into my parents' worlds to remind them of why my absence is actually evidence of the growth of our greater family. At least, that's how I deal with the latent NM Catholic guilt that tends to rear it's head this time of year.

"I love Baby Jesus," Jordan's told me on more than one occasion. And I smile benignly and nod my head and wonder if it's the early shimmerings of guilt that elicits this comment, or a saccharine mimicing of something she's heard from someone convinced of their own righteousness - or I'll hapily concede, from someone with absolute and total faith. It reminds me of what's always been the creepiest part of Christmas for me, the idea that not only is Santa watching to see whether I'm naughty or nice, but there's Jesus' trump card - the threat of eternal damnation if I think too much of my own wants and not enough of the sacrifices made for me. I don't mind that Christmas isn't so much about the birth of Jesus anymore, that it's been usurped by our culture into a nondenominational celebration. I love building new tradiitons and having what matters be what song we choose first on each porch and whether we've made enough cookies for everyone we want to visit. I loved the ritual of the Catholic Church and so many of the teachings, but I know plenty of people, including my own mother, for whom it has provided more pain than joy. And so I choose a Christmas of our own making. Jesus is invited of course, but there are other houses to visit as well.

On the excessive present note, we just finished oppening the last of them tonight, saving the last five that we bought one another for the very end. I think I envisioned that this would be the most meaningful gift-opening moment. I think instead it was the most stripped down, the last step to conquer before finally falling into our own beds. And indeed, Sawyer is under his covers still holding his new tennis racket - pink, with Dora the Explorer on it. Jordan's has Dora as well and it certainly might be in her bed if Strawberry Shortcake adorned it, but clearly only Dora is badass enough for the sport. Jordan shows promise with a racket, with all sports, really, so I feel pretty confident that even though she's not sleeping with hers, it'll soon earn a place in her heart. At least I won't lie awake on nights insomnia bubbles gently through my brain envisioning a Safeway truck shredding it into oblivion somewhere between Barstow and Flagstaff.

There are thank you cards to write, miles of them, nand the last of the New Years' photo cards to get out. Ironically, someone stole the three bolted down blocks of mailboxes on our route, sixty in all, last night. Having forgotten to place a hold on our mail, it's likely our box will be of the most bountiful for the theives, packed full of cards, some checks, and I'm sure a present or two in the oversized parcel boxes that were also liberated. When we got a phone call from a neighbor informing us of the theft, I immediately mourned not for lost gifts but for the Christmas cards I count on to watch friends' babies grow, to keep up with friends who would be closer if there were time enough to get to know them better. And we do, at least moderately, through these cards. Although there is so much to do after a long trip. I am glad to have been with my parents at Christmas. Travel, especially home, is exhausting on so many levels, not the least of which is dealing with the inevitable clash between who I was then and who I think I am now, the inevitable small irritations of loved ones toward each other, what can only be terror at one spouse watching the parents of the other and wondering what horrifying traits will be unlocked in their partner by the wicked keys of time. But there are the replenishing moments as well: the overwhelming joy of watching my parents fall more and more in love with my kids and watching my kids yank my parents joyfully back towards youth. The relief as well as sadness I felt as we drove away is just what I should be have experienced on departure, I think, from a successful trip.

We're home, with its piles of laundry and endless to do lists, but we're together, safe, whole. And as I start to put away decorations and bags to reuse again next year for yet more gifts, I'll be counting every last blessing of 2007 and of Christmas this year. Including the strength of will that enabled me to save Polly Pocket for the hospice resale store pile rather than environmentally having added her to my ever present mound of guilt. The last strains of "Angels We Have Heard on High" are fading in my head, and I hear Jordan and Sawyer singing, at the top of their lungs, each of our names in place of the chorus (I remember wondering for a few years who this Gloria chick was, too). Jordan, Sawyer, Mama, Papa, Grandma, Grandpa, all the aunts and uncles' names elongated to 13 syllables sung at top volume. Each and every one eternally glorious.