Last night we drove.

As we do most years.

We drove around town, listening to Christmas carols and sometimes singing along (badly, I might add), looking at Christmas lights. Watching for the houses with the best displays. Admiring those that were especially colorful, or intricate, or retina-searing.

As we drove, “The First Noel” came on the radio. It took me a minute to realize that I was lost in the song, imagining playing it on the piano when I was a girl, singing with all my pre-teen heart. “The First Noel” was one of my favorites. “Silent Night.” “Greensleeves.”  I played, and sang, and probably tortured my parents.

It was beautiful.

Christmases were beautiful. I remembered when I was five years old and got my first bicycle, dark blue and white with a sparkly banana seat and streamers flowing from the handlebars. I remembered the year my mother, inexplicably, crafted Santa and Mrs. Claus out of Reader’s Digests and red spray-paint. I remembered the Christmas Eve my cousins and I all received sleeping bags from our grandparents, unwrapping them in the glow of the tree. I remembered a shopping trip with Dad, sitting in a Hardee’s restaurant on the first day of winter in 1977. Or maybe it was 1978. He explained the solstice to me over hamburgers.

I remembered the sleigh bells that hung on the back door, and the enormous artificial wreath that my mom always put in the family room. And spaghetti dinners on Christmas Eve. And the annual sugar cookie cut-outs, when I was allowed to sort through all of Mom’s cookie cutters: the ancient metal reindeer and gingerbread man, the red plastic Santa, the green Christmas tree. And so many more. More cookie cutters. More memories.

Last night my memories of “The First Noel” told me the beautiful lie that my childhood was perfect. There is no possible way, I thought, that my children will have such magical memories. I shrank inside as I thought about yelling at them the evening before. And about the messy living room, and how a Christmas tree doesn’t look very pretty in a cluttered room.  About how we didn’t take them to Breakfast with Santa because I was just too tired. And about how I’m never able to follow through with all my Christmas plans. I never get it all done. And I will never, I thought, ever make the kind of memories that my parents made for me.

As if on cue, Evan piped up from the back seat, “Looking at all these Christmas lights makes me feel happy.” His voice was quivering with excitement. Jensen added, “I love that we do this every year.”

Of course my childhood wasn’t perfect. Of course there were arguments and tears. There was even lumpy gravy at Christmas dinner. It happens.

Nor did my parents manufacture my memories for memories’ sake. The things I remember are artifacts of a content childhood that had moments of discontent, and of a loving family that didn’t always see eye-to-eye. The memories were never the goal. The happiness was.

As we drove last night, it was this tree that made Evan’s happiness spill over. This tree is the only source of light on its street. There are no other Christmas displays, and not so much as a streetlight. Just this tree, ablaze in the pitch-black night. This tree has a name. It is called The Magic Tree.

And I don’t know if the boys will always remember this particular tree, on this particular night, at this particular Christmas.

But that is not the goal.

I’m not dead. Or ill. Or any horrible thing. On the contrary, I am very happily Christmas-ing. Which seems to be taking time away from my blogging. Which is probably as it should be, no?

Getting kind of down to the wire on Christmas shopping… and Sarah & Jen had someone land on Momalom by Googling “gift for mother of three boys.” Obviously there’s a need for some assistance out there. And I am here to serve. I’ve compiled a list of things that might be helpful, trying to take into account a variety of tastes and budgets. The Mother of Three Boys in your life will be thrilled to find any of the following under the tree on Christmas morning.

Holiday Gift Guide for Mothers of Three Boys

Pink. Anything pink, because there is a good chance that there is nothing pink in her entire home. Bubble gum. Handcuffs. Cadillac. Use your imagination. Just get it in pink. Cost: $0.59 and up.

The Idiot’s Guide to Pokemon and Bakugan and All Those Other Stupid-Ass Trading Card Games with Weird Japanese Cartoon Characters that Elementary-School-Age Boys Love. These games make absolutely no sense to adults. Or females. Cost: paperback $16.95; e-book $9.99.

Plane Tickets. To anywhere, provided they are one-way. Cost: $87 and up, plus about $302 in airline fees.

Four-Shooter Rotating Liquor Dispenser. I know, I said I didn’t want this. But as I thought about it, I realized it was The Perfect Gift for a totally strung-out mother who has three boys running around shooting Nerf guns and farting all the time. Cost: $17.88, plus booze.

Valium Salt Lick. I stole this directly from The Kitchen Witch, because it is an awesome idea. You could also get a Junior size, guaranteed to chill those boys the hell out. If you get both this and the liquor dispenser, you might urge her to exercise caution in using both simultaneously.  Cost: No idea. Maybe a little pricey. Couldn’t tell you what Valium is going for these days.

Georgia O’Keeffe Print. Let’s just say it: there are a lot of penises in her house. This might provide a little balance. And if you don’t understand this one, I’m not gonna explain it. Cost: $22.99; $129.03 framed.

Noise Cancelling Headphones. All she wants is a little peace and quiet, without the constant roar of boy-children yelling out of anger. Or joy. Or hunger. Whatever. Get her a pair of these and she’ll be able to relax no matter what’s going on. (Disclaimer: not responsible if mother fails to hear screams when boy cuts off his brother’s hand with a chainsaw.) Cost: $27.68-399.99.

Imaginary Bullet-Proof Vest. To protect her from all the imaginary bullets that the firearm-obsessed little Rambos are constantly shooting from their imaginary guns. Cost: Free.

Prostitute. For him, not her. To satisfy whatever needs he may have. Because when she goes to bed at night, all she wants to do is sleep. Trust me on this one. Cost: Varies by region. Check Craigslist for current rates in your area. I would advise you to avoid bargain-basement prices, however.

Bathroom Renovation. Toilet training one boy makes your bathroom disgusting. Toilet training two boys makes it unusable except in emergencies. Toilet training three boys results in the need for a floor-to-ceiling decontamination, and requires the use of biohazard suits to enter. Reclaim your home and gut the bathroom. Cost: I dunno. Probably at least a couple grand.

A Year’s Supply of Air Freshener. In case the renovation isn’t in your budget. Cost: $168.

So there are just a few ideas to get you started. Ho. Ho. Ho.

(Oh, and many apologies for the rampant gender stereotypes in this post. In my defense, there is a reason for most of those stereotypes. I know this for a fact.)

Okay. Thanksgiving is over. I am so glad we got all that “thankfulness” stuff out of the way. Now we can move onto what really matters: spending money we don’t have on crap we don’t need and for which there is no need to be thankful.

Dutifully, my kids are making Christmas lists for themselves. And wondering what they should buy Dad. And me. And this morning the Sunday paper came and it was 81% ads and the kids pored over them with excitement I haven’t seen since, well, last Christmas. And then there are the 12 mail-order catalogs we get every day. The kids have a cumulative attention span of 43 seconds. Unless they’re looking for stuff to buy. Then they’re good for about 3 hours.

Anyway. After watching them look at the ads this morning, I’m gonna help them out a little. This is a list of things they should categorically NOT give me for Christmas. Period.

• A 6.2-carat genuine cultured faux Christmas-tree shaped topaz adjustable-size ring with matching earrings and a coordinating belt buckle. Any “fashion jewelry” is not. Fashionable. Or, arguably, jewelry.
• A Roomba. Unless my husband is secretly itching for a life of celibacy. In which case any small household appliance would make a perfectly fine gift.
• “Fine fragrance.” Again: anything that feels the need to specify is, most assuredly, not fine.
• A Snuggie. Well, actually, maybe. But no. No.
• A Snuggie for my dog. (If I had a dog.) I actually read a “news report” about Black Friday in which a woman cited not purchasing a Snuggie for her dog last Friday as an example of her new-found fiscal restraint, given These Current Economic Times. To her I say: way to stand firm. It’s personal responsibility like this that makes Our Nation Great.
• A Baby Alive doll that eats. And poops. Granted, I’m probably not the target demographic for this one, but Evan thought it would be perfect for me. I guess a pooping doll is the gift that keeps on giving. This? Is one ugly doll. And it poops. The stuff of nightmares.
• A spare-toilet-paper-roll-holder. Shaped like a giraffe. Its neck is really long and you store TP rolls over said long neck. Yes: this really exists. Ain’t capitalism grand?
• A massager, back or foot variety. Even if it does shiatsu.
• An electric shaver. Apparently Christmas is to the electric shaver industry what Easter is to the egg industry. Here’s hoping I don’t need one.
• A 4-shooter rotating liquor dispenser. Actually, this one may be very practical. I can install it in the laundry room and toss back a couple every time I take stuff out of the dryer. Efficient.
• A DIY doggie DNA test. For anybody who’s just been dying to find out if their ugly, mean chihuahua has a long-lost Rottweilian ancestor. I might get this and secretly test Jeff to see if he has any poodle blood. Seriously, if you’ve seen the dude’s hair recently, you understand.
• A money-sorting jar. The kids found this one in the “For Dad!” section of the ads. Fortunately the ads designate gifts for each parent so we don’t accidentally get a a Dad Gift for Mom or vice versa. But the kids, in their progressive stereotype-crashing ways,  still thought I might like the money-sorter. And I’m totally going to tell them they should get their dad a purple leather purse. A Fashion Handbag, no less. And maybe a zebra-striped bra.
• A Zhu-zhu pet. Mostly because I don’t want my family members to risk closed cranial trauma in the pursuit of one of these stupid things.

What I really want: a Nook. But Barnes & Noble didn’t foresee that this would be a popular gift (how could they have possibly known?!) (oh, and who’s a sucker for marketing?) and they’re sold out until, like, 2013. And I also want a Christmas sweater. Monogrammed. With the letters “WTF” instead of my initials. (Thanks, Becky. I cannot get this out of my head now.) Oh, and if there just happened to be a white Lexus with an enormous red bow on its roof in the driveway on Christmas morning, I probably wouldn’t complain.

But. Marketing being what it is, and my kids being who they are, there’s a good chance I’ll end up with one or more of the items on the Do Not Gift List. Or a home karaoke machine. Or a hand-crafted clay ashtray. And me being who I am, whatever they get me I will declare it The Best Christmas Gift Ever. And I will mean it. Even if it’s a Chia Pet.

While you’ll have to wait until next month to see our actual Christmas card, it is my great pleasure to share with you now our 2009 Christmas Card Reject Photos. Enjoy.

Caleb's immediate reaction upon seeing the camera was to throw himself on the floor and start screaming. This was shockingly similar to Jeff's reaction when I told him it was time to take the pictures.

Red-eye from the camera flash? Or photographic evidence of demonic possession? I think the answer is obvious.

In my fictional world, this is Jensen being really excited to have his picture taken. More likely, he was this happy because I promised him candy when we were done. Seriously, isn't Christmas all about bribery? If you don't pull out "If you're not good, Santa won't bring you a cool present" at least once in the next month, you're a better parent than I. You're probably a better parent than I am, anyway.

My fantasy continues: "Yes!" he shouts. "I love posing for pictures! And I have the awesomest parents in the world! And they definitely don't yell at me during Christmas picture-taking!"

Reality check. "You want me to smile?" he asks, truly perplexed. "As if."

My minimum expectation is that the kids actually look at the camera. Which is apparently asking too much.

Okay, seriously. Look at the camera. No! Look! Dammit. (And so the swearing begins.)

Right. While nose-picking is very festive and all, could you maybe not? I'll give you candy if you don't pick your nose. And puppies! I promise.

There are no words that adequately describe this child. None.

Temporarily ignoring this look of anguish, I must explain that I have no idea why two-thirds of our children are not wearing shirts for their Christmas pictures. But, let's be honest: Christmas would be a whole lot more fun if we were ALL half-naked. Am I right?

All I can say is that this one came dangerously close to making the final cut. Best. Christmas card. Ever.*

Shortly after this last shot, Jeff and I indulged in our now-traditional Christmas Card Picture Stiff Drink while the kids withdrew to their bedrooms to flip through the yellow pages for therapists and to plot their revenge for this annual torture session.  This is the stuff memories are made of. God, I love the holidays.

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