She kissed me back. Right on the lips, the type of kiss I’m normally opposed to unless it’s from someone to whom I’m married.

“I love you, too, Mommy,” she said, and hugged me hard. She leaned back and looked at me, like she was trying to remember something she’d been taught.

“Why I no can marry you?” she asked.

So much love. People grouse about Valentine’s Day being silly and commercial and fake and I guess I used to be one of those people, but probably not since I met Ray and definitely not since I had Sophie. This holiday was made for her — not only is it a celebration of love for a kid exploding with it but it’s a celebration of the heart for a kid whose own blood-pumper has been pulled twice from her chest for repairs.

And so I heart you, Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it. Nor can I help getting downright ridiculous on the whole topic. Last night I was up til 2 making valentines for Sophie’s class, and today I snuck out of work to make heart-shaped goggles with her class, dropped cards at Annabelle’s school, baked red heart-shaped whoopie pies for my co-workers and now I have to run home to get the heart-shaped pasta in the water for a special valentine dinner at home. Typically I care if Ray acknowledges a holiday (he’s really good about it) but today I don’t much care whether he got me anything. I bought a little bunch of hot pink carnations for the family the other day; they’re perfect.

Silly? Sure. Commercial? In spades. Fake? I suppose. But there are worse things than a day dripping with sugar. If Valentine’s Day can make any of us feel — even for a few minutes, even with the aid of chocolate and commerce — the way Sophie feels on a regular basis, more power to it. We can all detox tomorrow.

Being a non-observant Jew married to a fallen Catholic is exhausting. And expensive.

That’s not to say we’re ignoring the real reason for the season — we’ve had great times with family and friends and it’s not even Christmas Eve. But of course gifts are a part of it.

The first night of Hanukkah, I got cocky. (Always dangerous — pride before a fall, that kind of thing.) We gave Annabelle an item from the top of her list, a “vintage” (read: crappy old) typewriter found at a flea market for 20 bucks.

Sophie got a three-pack of Olivia the Pig panties.

I’ve got the only kid in the universe thrilled to receive underwear for a holiday gift. So thrilled she stopped several times that night to hug me and say, “Thank you for making my wish come true!”

So yeah, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Till I woke up the next morning and realized that — for the first time, ever — I’d fallen asleep without tending to tooth fairy duties. Annabelle had lost one that afternoon and frankly, the whole thing got lost in the shuffle of the last day of school before break and the first night of Hanukkah.

So shoot me.

I think she wanted to. Annabelle still talks about the tooth fairy and all that, but I got an extra dirty look when she asked me if I had any suggestions as to what had happened to Tabitha Fairchild (note to self: if you are going to concoct an elaborate tooth fairy scheme, make sure you follow through each and every time).

For the record, Tabitha came the following night, full of silver dollars and a letter bearing explanations as to what had happened (she didn’t recognize Annabelle’s note — she’d typed it on her new typewriter and Tabitha was looking for Annabelle’s handwriting).

“Not very magical, huh?” one of my cousins commented last night at dinner when I told the story.

No, not very magical. It was the best I could do. No, I told the table, I don’t think Annabelle really believes anymore. She’s on the cusp of 10 and a half. She’s an aetheist, for Christ’s sake. But she hasn’t given up on the TF and Santa completely.

“She’s sort of in belief purgatory, I think,” I told them.

So I’m off to a different kind of purgatory — Target two days before Christmas.

And then, damnit, I’m going to get a pedicure. By myself.

I love you. You’re the best Santa Claus I ever had. I love Christmas. I want paintbrushes and baby stuff, too. We are watching Elf right now and I saw you on Elf. But you are fake on Elf. What’s your favorite color and what’s all the reindeers’ names and I love you the most. Courtney Funk (that’s Sophie’s sitter) says I love Christmas. You’re the best, Santa. You’re the super best best Santa, ever. I hope you are staying warm at the North Pole. Do you like Rudolph? You’re the best Santa ever I ever, ever, ever had.

Love, Sophie — Your Christmas Friend

So I’m feeling a little self conscious about the giant Christmas tree in our living room.

In our nearly 14 years of marriage, Ray and I have often had trees, but of the tabletop variety — and fake. One year we did get a live one but I didn’t water it enough and it died almost immediately, so I don’t count it.

Last night I asked a question on Facebook: Am I supposed to decorate the back of the tree? All my Jewish friends said yes; my friends who’ve actually had Christmas trees said no. I thought that was funny, that the Jews wouldn’t dream of “cheating” in this regard, and yet so many of us have such a sliding scale approach to the traditions and tenets of Judaism. Like how my grandmother would never cook a ham in the house, but she loved to eat bacon out. Or how in my mind, a tabletop tree is okay, but a real one from a Christmas tree lot is somehow over the edge.

For so many of us, it’s really all about family traditions anyhow. And that’s certainly the case this year. Ever since Ray’s mom died almost three years ago, his father’s been bringing her stuff over to the house. First it was her sewing machine, then a silver tea set, then boxes of random things, and finally, the Christmas decorations.

That one really hit me. We’d always celebrated Christmas at Ray’s parents’ house; each year they invited the girls over (alone!) to decorate their big tree — a full-size but a fake, the kind that’s pre-lit and folds up. I think the tree’s someplace in our house, too, but we didn’t get that out. Ray did show up in the living room the other day with the Christmas decoration box, and set it down next to our boxes of Christmas and Hanukkah stuff.

The year my mother in law died, I convinced my father in law to have Christmas at his house. We brought most of the food, he decorated the tree. It was nice; as nice as it could be under the circumstances. But obviously (and understandably) not for him – later he announced he wouldn’t be hosting Christmas again.  So that Christmas box hadn’t been opened for years, had probably been sitting in the hot garage, and when I tried to get it open, the duct tape covering it had hardened.

“I can’t open the box,” I told Ray. He accused me of not trying hard enough. Of course he was right.

I was afraid of the box, afraid it would upset the girls, afraid of that giant tree. What if it looked like crap when I was done? I stood in front of it and sang a little song in my head:

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, you kinda scare the shit outta me….

Eventually, the thing had to get decorated. Last night we lit a fire, kept the TV off for once, and Ray ran to the hardware store for lights. I was impressed that he knew to start with big ones on the bottom, putting the smaller up top. I had no idea that’s how it’s done. I got out the garlands I usually drape over the mantleplace and wrapped them around the tree; they looked pretty good.

Then Ray got out a knife and opened his family’s box of Christmas decorations. And you know what? It wasn’t as sad as I thought it would be. By bedtime (okay, a little past) we’d almost finished. (Above are the results, as of last night.)

It didn’t look perfect, like my  mother in law’s always did. The live tree tilts just a little, and there isn’t really enough room for it in our tiny space. When I asked that Facebook question about the back of the tree, someone joked that that’s where you put all the kids’ handmade ornaments. I’ll be honest, I hid some of the uglier ones back there. But most of them — including the ones Ray made as a kid — are front and center. And they look awesome.

I bet our babysitter will think so, too.

This drawing of her grandchildren — which accompanied a Thanksgiving story and decorated each plate at our Thanksgiving table — pretty much says it all. (My nephew Benjamin stars as the king; story was written by his sister Kate.)

Very Gaga, in all the right ways.

Thanksgiving was so uneventful this year that it’s taken me a week to even mention it. Best part of the day: The younger generations gathered at my house, per tradition, to give my mother some alone time to get ready. I made several side dishes and a couple pies to bring to Gaga’s (with varying results, and that’s being kind) and after I’d filled the kitchen with dirty dishes, my sister shooed me off on a walk by myself and managed to watch all five of our kids and load the dishwasher.

I was very thankful.

“Here’s the thing,” he said, by way of apologizing for getting snippy with me the day before. “It’s just that when you are rushing around doing all that holiday stuff, you look so miserable.”

My jaw dropped, then my lips pursed.

“I’M FESTIVE!” I announced, shocked that anyone could challenge my holiday cheer — be it for a birthday, Halloween or my favorite avalanche of joy, Christmas.

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” he said, sighing. “You’re festive, all right. But you just don’t look happy.”

I flashed back to the scene last Sunday, the day before Halloween – me racing around like a crazy woman, looking everywhere for my black and white oilcloth tableclothes, rinsing pumpkin seeds, baking cookies, making soup, clearing real cobwebs and hanging fake ones, all while trying desperately to clear the piles that crop up on every empty surface in our house as soon as I turn my back. And not being very nice about any of it.

I hate it when Ray’s right. It’s true. I’m festive — with a vengeance.

“OK, I’ll try to look like this throughout the holiday season,” I said, flashing my biggest, fakest courtesy smile.

“That’s better,” Ray replied weakly.

I do know what he means; I’ve been thinking about it, even before that little intervention. I need to cut back on the holiday cheer. And so there will be no “Homemade Fucking Christmas” this year (which involved the goal of making every single gift I gave, then beating myself up when I failed); no push to create a half-dozen varieties of fruit-infused vodka and tequila (though I did just come into a box of grapefruit, so maybe one batch); and I promise not to try to make my own latkes.

OK, who am I fooling? I do have plans for a tamale day, a full-sized Christmas tree and my first attempt at a Hanukkah brisket. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

I do promise to do it all with a giant smile on my face.

Turns out, it was the year of the unrecognized costume.

Ray got home late tonight. “Hey, get your fox costume on!” I said. I was already in my Felicity Fox get-up.

“Oh, I thought I’d wear the Spiderman costume from last year,” Ray said. “The Fantastic Mr. Fox shirt is in the laundry.”

“No unitard!” Annabelle commanded. That was that. The shirt appeared, the fox mask went on. I don’t think Ray was worried so much about wearing a dirty shirt as not being recognized. We all had that problem this year.

Annabelle’s devil costume was easy to get, but did you notice from the photo she’s actually a hippie devil? I’m not sure where that came from.

And Sophie. Sophie’s costume was the piece de resistance — we came up with the idea months ago, loved it for its simplicity and perfection. Fit her to a t. Except no one knew what she was. Can you tell?

A paintbrush.

I never dress up at Halloween. Never.

I think the last time I dressed up for Halloween I was in the fourth grade. But this year I couldn’t resist — I got the idea to be Felicity Fox from Fantastic Mr. Fox a couple months ago, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I even convinced Ray to abandon last year’s Spiderman one-piece and be my Fantastic Mr. Fox.

It wasn’t a tough sell. The  movie’s a big favorite in our house (rare that all four of us agree on anything beyond Disneyland and the Beatles) and lately, we’ve had a Fox Thing in our neighborhood.

Turns out, our super-urban (well, not as urban as yours, if you live in a Big City, but pretty citified for metro Phoenix) ‘hood is home to an unknown number of foxes. I like to think there are just two — one red, the other silver. There might be more.

I’ve caught glimpses of a red fox a couple times during the day, but the best sightings are of the silver fox, which tends to cross the street at night, fur glinting in your headlights.  At first it looks like just another neighborhood cat, then you notice the big, crazy tail and realize what it is — and then it’s gone.

A sparkly creature, so extra-special you wonder if you saw it at all.

Ray drew the line at the tail — which, if you’ve seen the movie, you know is cool. We stuck a couple Band Aids on his butt. Annabelle even designed me a copy of the brooch Felicity wears and I stuffed my pockets with paintbrushes, which made Sophie very happy.

Speaking of paintbrushes, wait til you see Sophie’s Halloween costume…. Stay tuned.

So cool.

The overwhelming sense of relief I feel when Mother’s Day ends is matched only by the relief I experience  on October 28, the day after my birthday.

I know this is messed up.

Don’t get me wrong — it was a terrific Mother’s Day. The best ever. Really. The first words I heard were from Sophie:

“Happy Mother’s Day, Daddy!”

This was as they rushed off to “secretly” make me breakfast in bed. That was followed by time to fold and put away five (!) baskets of laundry, a trip to Walgreen’s BY MYSELF, and — after some nagging, I’ll admit — a family trip to the art museum.

I got handmade cards, flowers, a phone car charger, the new Fleet Foxes CD, a painted paper fan (Sophie) and duct tape earrings (Annabelle — she made them to resemble a favorite pair I lost). After the museum, we had dinner with my parents at a cool new restaurant and the day ended with a brisk, late-night walk on Tempe Town Lake with one of my BFFs.

I never had time to write that blog post I meant to write, the one about all my mom writer friends, both virtual and live.

At dinner, Annabelle asked, “Mommy, when I grow up, can I take your writing class?”

See? A really wonderful day. And yet last night when I came home and realized those dishes in the sink were all mine, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Why is that? Why can’t I just revel in a lovely celebration?

Whatever you did Sunday, I hope you reveled in it!

It was a Big Weekend.

The cousins were here, visiting from Denver. Aside from the fact that I spent a little too much time studying my (adorable) almost four year old nephew and comparing his cognitive abilities to Sophie’s, it was a truly lovely time — beautiful weather, grand company, and my baked French toast turned out just right. I also taught myself to make cascarones (the eggshells dyed then filled with confetti and closed up with tissue paper, then glittered, and yes they are time consuming!) and we topped the whole thing off last night with Thai food.

The perfect Easter, as far as this Jew is concerned.

And now, with the spring holidays over, it’s on to birthday season.