I woke up yesterday morning and noticed that the dog had a bar code on the bottom of her paw. Fitting, considering how much merchandise has made its way into our house, the last week. I’ve now learned my lesson about how important it is to take careful inventory….

We were all a little bleary-eyed yesterday morning, two mornings after Christmas, and Annabelle had a friend sleep over. She’s never slept at a friend’s (just grandparents’) but has had the occasional guest, and O. is a very old friend in her world — dating back to kindergarten. I spread quilts and blankets on Annabelle’s floor, and the two lined up their pillows and stuffed animals and the lights were finally out sometime after 10.

But Annabelle — I love that kid — got hysterical. She emerged from her room, tears smeared everywhere, to announce that when she doesn’t sleep in her own bed, she misses me.

“Um, Annabelle, your bed is a few inches away. Grab your pillow and hop in.”

“Are you sure?” (More exhausted sobs. Bad mom. Should have made bedtime earlier.)

“Yes.”

And so she did. I was up for a few more hours, trying to make a dent in the laundry. (That flow finally stopped last night, when the washer gave up in the middle of a load of Ray’s.)

All that to say that none of us were on the top of the game, Saturday morning. Except for Sophie. (And Ray, who had fallen asleep early, but he took off early for a mountain bike ride.) Annabelle and O. insisted on immediately going back to the sewing project they’d started the night before, with the sewing kit Annabelle had received from Santa. I had insisted they sit at the kitchen table, then gave in when they wanted to move to the coffee table to watch Project Runway (more bad mom, another Xmas gift, have you seen Season One? pretty bawdy!) and stayed there in the morning.

At least all the materials are on the table together, I thought, as I left all three girls in the living room to go to the kitchen to make breakfast. (You can see where this is headed.)

And now I’ll pause to acknowledge that I know the self-haircut is a rite of passage for all kids. Not me, I was too wimpy, but when she was 3 or so my sister did put her hair in pink sponge curlers — then cut them all out. Trish reminded me that Abbie cut her own hair around the same age. Ms. X (when I called to tell her) insisted that all kindergarteners do it at least once. (Not Annabelle, I grumped to myself.)

I’d considered it a point of pride, that I’d never let scissors get into Sophie’s hands. But there she was, yesterday morning, standing no more than 2 feet away from Annabelle and O., watching Oswald and wacking away at her hair with the incredibly sharp scissors from Annabelle’s new sewing kit. I grabbed the scissors, stared hard at Annabelle (it wasn’t her fault, so I then apologized but still confiscated the scissors; she didn’t complain) and had a talk with Sophie.

It was a lot of hair, in big hunks I swept off the floor and considered saving, then trashed. And here’s the crazy part. Last night, when we were sitting at the coffee table (sewing stuff safely away) eating dinner, I looked over at Sophie and noticed she’d done a damn fine job. Her hair falls around her face in soft layers, and somehow, even interrupted in mid-cut, she got it fairly even. She looked great.

I wanted to tell her, but of course, I didn’t say a word.

Christmas is the loneliest day of the year for a Jew, and don’t try to tell me it isn’t.

All notions of religion aside, it’s the biggest party of the year and the Jew, simply put, is not invited. I come by this feeling honestly. It’s genetic. My mother has her own story of a basement, a ping pong table, and a sad excuse for a tree. (You can read about it here: http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/1999/12/22/jew2/)

I don’t have that problem, not anymore. Now, I didn’t mean to marry a goy. For crying out loud, the guy had dark curly hair, a very Semetic last name, and he was from Queens. Turns out his great grandfather changed the family name way back, so he could get himself a job in the Garment District.

But since I wasn’t very Jewish and Ray was no longer Catholic at all, it really didn’t matter (much, don’t get me started on our resolution to join a temple next year — maybe) and as a bonus, I got Christmas. My mother in law has always been impressed by my knowledge of Christmas trivia; I generally win the game where you get clues and have to name the carol.

I love Christmas. The blue and white stockings my mom filled with everything but the candy we wanted are a distant memory, replaced with way-too-big (I realized this year, when it came time to fill them) red and green stockings for Annabelle and Sophie. OK, so I swipe the candy and throw it out when they’re not looking, but the idea is still there, and I want more than anything for them to have great memories of Christmas.

This year was a success. Sophie got her “Noggin bath toys” and Annabelle got her Nintendo DS, and if we don’t establish some rules soon Ray and I won’t see more than the top of the head of our elder child for the next several years. (I already hate that thing.)  We spent a decadent morning lounging around (both Ray and I fell asleep sitting up, after staying up way too late with last minute preparations) and then headed to the in laws for more presents and more lounging.

I’ve happily had my fill of red and green.

All day, though, I thought of my sister. Jenny doesn’t have any sort of reason for the season. She married a bona fide Jew, and they don’t celebrate Christmas. At all. And while I don’t think it really bothers her much in general (Jenny’s pretty practical, and Christmas is a pain in the ass), the text messages  started last night. I don’t want to reveal off the record details, but let’s just say there was a small amount of sulking going on and maybe some illicit sneaking around to listen to Christmas music.

Of course I felt guilty for all of my merry making (even a tree! the worst!) and wished I could make it okay for her, but the truth is that even with my access to Christmas by marriage, I’m an interloper, a faker. I know the tree doesn’t look quite right.

I know how she feels.

It’s just not the Most Wonderful Time of the Year for a Jew. From a commercial perspective (you can debate the religious significance) Hanukkah’s a loser of an also-ran, if you ask me. Nothing — not even a present a night for eight nights — compares to the blissful excess of Christmas morning. And if you do try to celebrate Hanukkah with any panache, pious Jews diss you. I’ve heard the Hanukkah decorations are kept boring ON PURPOSE to keep observers in line. A good friend of mine told me recently that someone from her temple chastized her for hanging blue and white lights on her house. Too Christmasy, she was told.

“It IS the festival of lights, after all,” she told me in disgust. She refused to take the lights down. We got a chuckle out of it, but that jerk’s comment probably ruined the lights for her, at least a little bit.

So yeah, I get it, Jen. Today Jenny and her family went to a friend’s house for Christmas. It’s a mixed marriage, like mine, so I’m sure there was a little Christmas. I hope they had fun. I missed them. (They live out of town.)

As we were washing the dishes tonight, my father in law heaved a sigh and said, “All that preparation — and now it’s over!” He’s like a little kid, he really looks forward to Christmas and gets depressed the moment the last piece of gift wrap is thrown away.

“I know,” I replied. “You always say that. You’re right.” 

“Yeah,” he sighed, turning back to the dishes.

Driving home, listening to Annabelle whine that she needed MORE Nintendo games (already?!), I felt a little depressed, too, mainly at the thought of the living room and the fact that it will take days to locate the floor.

Then I remembered something. It’s the fifth night of Hanukkah. We got home, dumped the presents from Grandma on the dining room table, and I dug the wax out of the menorah to make way for more candles. Ray yelled at me for holding the lighter too close to my hand (he was right, of course; I burned myself) and the girls and I said the prayer.

Every night, they get better at it. Even Sophie’s starting to memorize the few lines. I haven’t figured out what I’ll say when they ask what the Hebrew means; there’s a lot of god in that prayer. (No duh, Amy!) But honoring the tradition felt good. I felt at home.

And there was one more present to open, from Aunt Jenny.

I don’t know how to put this without sounding impossibly corny, but it’s still officially Christmas, so I’ll just go for it. It doesn’t matter if you drape it in red and green or blue and white — what matters is what’s in your heart.

But it sure would help if somene would come up with some catchy, sappy Hanukkah songs. Meantime, I’m going to burn a copy of the Christmas CD my friend Sari made me and send it to Jenny for next year.

Merry Christmas, little sister. See you at the family Hanukkah party on Sunday. I’ll keep the Christmas tree up for you.

I came closer than I ever have, this year, to writing a holiday letter.

In a season filled with corny joys — from my favorite holiday song, “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas,” not coincidentally my mom’s favorite as well, to the “crazy house” with all the lights we drive by at least three times before Christmas — this is one I have always loved to loathe. Perhaps because some of my friends (distant friends, okay?) write such incredibly bad Christmas letters.

But this year, early in the season, I opened one and found myself loving it, wanting more, admiring the writing of the dad of one of Sophie’s classmates. I meant to save it and quote from it for you, but damnit, it’s floated away in a sea of holiday debris….

I read that letter, which so eloquently described the tribulations of raising a 5 year old girl and a 1o year old boy and keeping a money pit of a house together, and thought two things. First, that man can WRITE. (And they say law school sucks it out of you; not so with him.) And second, that I am a hypocrite.

What is blogging, if not a year-round Christmas letter? Who am I to criticize an innocent annual catching-up, when I expect you to slog through a blog nearly every day?

So I resolved to write my own holiday letter. (Insert sounds of throat clearing and knuckle cracking here. Also obligatory third person, the voice from which all holiday letters appear to be written. Also a lot of exclamation points.)

This was a challenging and enjoyable year for the Silverman Stern household! Sophie started kindergarten — mainstreamed in a classroom with 20+ kids and one teacher — and Annabelle is such a big girl, in the second grade! Sophie still loves Elmo and Annabelle has decided to be a fashion designer. Ray continued in 2008 to toss himself off mountains on his bike, and to climb increasingly challenging routes both in town and away. Amy (and no, friends, this is not a typo!) began training  to walk 13 miles in the PF Chang’s Rock n Roll marathon this coming January, and has already completed 11 miles! Both Ray and Amy love their journalism jobs. Ray won a coveted investigative reporting award this year, and was named the paper’s “master blogger”, which sure keeps him busy! Amy edited her fifth “Best of Phoenix” and got her hand back in the writing game by covering John McCain’s run the for the White House.

I stopped there. Could I now dive into a discussion of my near-nervous breakdown over McCain and Palin? I know people weave the negative into their holiday letters, but was it too much to mention the three funerals I attended this year, or the fact that now that we’re in our 40s, our friends’ health maladies aren’t just ACL surgeries anymore? Do I mention that I’m up in the middle of the night, most nights, imaging the complete impulsion of the newspaper (and thus my career — and Ray’s) and the erosion of any financial security our family might feel?

And Sophie, what about Sophie? Just this past Monday, the woman from the state agency that funds her therapies and habilitation care came for her 90 day review. It was a perfunctory visit, except for two things: Sophie, in rare form, and excited after unwrapping a big package of art supplies from a family friend, grabbed a pair of scissors (kid scissors, still in the package), waved them at the caseworker and and announced, “I cut you!”

The woman was very kind, even when she told me that unless we can find a doctor who will say Sophie’s IQ is below 70, come May — and her 6th birthday — Sophie will lose physical, occuational, speech and music therapy, as well as a lot of other services we’ve come to depend on.

So yeah, maybe a holiday letter isn’t the best idea. Unless it’s someone else’s. Yesterday the one that always wins my award for the Worst Holiday Letter of the Year arrived — and it didn’t disappoint. Two typed pages, single spaced, in the forced form of a “conversation” between the man and woman of the house — with cutesy references (this year — it’s a different theme every year, once it was brands of cleaning products, kid you not) to the “Executive Branch” of the house. For example, a description of storm damage really “rocked our Homeland Security” and the kids’ activities tapped their “Energy”. “Transportation” involved Disneyland and a trip to Florida.

I have a lot of nerve criticizing these poor people — they’re just trying to be creative — and as penance, I’ve decided to refrain from forcing my own holiday letter on them and others, for another year at least.

And I’ll resolve to not try to write multi-thought blogs on a morning before a major holiday when Sophie’s climbing all over me and I’ve just realized it’s days too late to make the bread stale for my mother in law’s stuffing, which we’re attempting for the first time this year.

Off to Safeway.

It came to me the other day, this term for the modern-day woman (and some men) obsessed with Martha Stewart and all that goes along with that.

Martharexic.

And as soon as it did, poof! I felt like a heavy blanket (chenille, just the  shade of cream to go with a perfectly appointed living room of toile and custom-made shutters and other things you’ll never see in my house but that I feel should be there) fell from my stooped shoulders.

Martharexia. If you’ve got it, you know. Trust me. The Martharexic subscribes to the magazine, pores over the Web site and lurks in the Martha aisle at Michael’s. She squints at her holiday table, trying to make it look just like Martha’s — at least to herself, for a moment.

She attempted to make fleur de lys toffee this year, but the truth is, she does better with old sugar cookie recipes that pre-date the Martha Thing and look bad but taste good, and better still with a big shot of Bailey’s in the hot chocolate as the party guests are arriving.

Yesterday we had our annual cookie party (more cookies than cocktails these days, given all the kids in attendance, though Ray and I remarked this morning on the ability of our friends to chug the booze, given the empty bottle count) and after I came up with my new vocabulary word, I gleefully took the jumbo boxes of taquitos from the freezer, heated and served them alongside my mom’s chili con queso dip (recipe circa 1970s, main ingredient: ginormous block of Velveeta) and plopped a cake plate of Trader Joe’s Jo-Jo cookies on the dessert table, to supplement the homemade cookies I did make.

With an hour to go before party’s end, we’d run out of everything but the queso, which was just then reaching its desired consistency in the crock pot. I’d had way too much sangria to care. “Have a Jo Jo!” I called to the late arrivers, from my perch on the couch.

And they did. And we were all happy. And so what if my guests talked about me on the way home? I’m buying the URL www.martharexia.com today, and by next year, I’ll have made a fortune — or at least enough for custom shutters and a caterer.

Like any (okay, most) self-respecting snobby working mom, I love to diss scrapbooking. For years I’ve wanted to pitch a story to New Times (my dayjob) about what I’ve come to call “the hierarchy of craft”. Scrapbooking’s at the very bottom, with beading (beading that requires no skill, just shopping and stringing — by the way, my craft of choice, along with hoarding craft supplies which I HAVE turned into a fine art) just above it.

But I always chicken out. Sort of like how I never got the nerve to pitch the idea about book clubs as the adult mean girl’s stomping grounds. (I think the New York Times Style section finally did it a little while ago. Damn.)

Digression, per usual. My point is that this morning I was shoving stuff into the girls’ annual boxes (the closest I get to memory preservation, I keep a box for each girl for each school year and put a lot of stuff — not everything but highlights in it) and thinking about how I do sort of wish I scrapbooked, and about how the school year is officially half over.

Christmas Break (let’s call a non-secular spade a non-secular spade) has begun. A time of reflection, at least a 5 minute window of it as I shove stuff into boxes, behind closet doors and under beds, in anticipation for the onslaught of our annual cocktail-party-that-with-kids-has-turned-into-more-of-a-cookie party tomorrow.

Sophie’s grown so much. She still waxes and wanes with the full moon — probably always will, I hope so — but I can see real growth. Let’s hope it doesn’t disappear in a sea of late nights and hot chocolate these next two weeks.

And Annabelle. Going through her pile of papers, I was tickled. Not by the math homework and spelling tests, but by the little scraps tucked in — her fashion designs, notes to and from friends, drawings of animals doing nutty things. I love that kid. She is so comfortable in her skin. Doesn’t come from me. I know Ray gets some credit. Her teacher, too.

I can only hope Sophie holds on at this school til second grade, so she can have the fantastic Mrs. Z. A couple weeks ago, Annabelle had a stomachache. “She just has to poop,” I stage whispered to Mrs. Z, warning her this might come arise as a topic.

“No problem,” she stage whispered back. “I’ll send her to the bathroom. Sometimes I send  the kids with a book.”

LOVE THAT WOMAN.

(And apologies if I’ve already mentioned that story, but it’s so good I’ll say it again! Also apologies to George Constanza and that particular Seinfeld episode.)

Mrs. Z. is a busy woman — she just graduated with a masters in something education related (I fear administration; she’d make a super principal but I want her to wait til she’s had Sophie!) and she has a family to watch out for, but still, there was a note in Annabelle’s back pack when she came home yesterday.

The class just finished reading “The Tale of Despereaux,” Mrs. Z explained in the note, and she’ll be seeing it this weekend at a nearby theater. She named the time and invited anyone from the class to come along.

No surprise that Mrs. Z and Sophie’s Ms. X are close friends. I heard Bill Bennett waxing on CNN the other day about how really, above all, teacher quality is what counts. I was horrified to find myself agreeing with this neanderthal, but how can I help it, on that point?

I’m not sure he was thinking about a teacher thoughtful enough to send my kid to the bathroom with a book. But still.

Some days I’m pretty sure Sophie’s smarter than the rest of us.

Last night the holiday loot came home in the backpack, in the form of two more laminated ornaments for the tree (which, blessedly, no longer smells — or at least I’ve gotten used to it) and a laminated card.

(Side note: Some day I will learn how to use the laminating machine at school and will laminate EVERYTHING. But for right now I maintain a healthy fear of it.)

The card has a darn good drawing that goes with the caption she dictated to Ms. X:

If I were a Christmas present for my Mom and Dad, I would be a cookie for my Mom and a tree for my Dad.

You’d have to know us well to understand the perfection of the statement. Trust me. She’s right on the money.

It rained yesterday. That’s headline news in these parts. We’re always unprepared. Several of the caramel-dipped, chocolate covered pretzels I’d brought to school as holiday gifts fell in a puddle (don’t worry, they were wrapped, you can get them that way — warning, product shot! — at Granny’s Chocolates in Gilbert; the casualty was the cute labels I’d ordered from etsy.com) and I was wrestling with the dry ones, wet hair dripping in my eyes, trying to figure out which teacher’s box was where in the school office when the principal walked by.

She always catches me at my most inauspicious. Usually at the copy machine, which befuddles me every time.

“Hi!!!!” she chirped, and launched right in: “I think Sophie’s doing SO well! Don’t YOU? She’s SO CUTE!”

I stopped, mid-pretzel placement, and looked at her. This is one of those moments where you wish you could hit the pause button like on the “Upside Down Show” on Noggin, and take a moment to figure out what to say.

I could have said, “Well, actually, I’m terrified Sophie has no friends and never will and I’m just playing a big game of pretend” or “I’m worried she’s taking up all of Ms. X’s time” or “She’d be doing a lot freaking better if she got even a dime’s worth of extra assistance, and are you ever going to do anything about that 92 to 1 kindergartener to adult ration on the playground at lunch?”

Instead I smiled a goofy smile and agreed with her, immediately wondering if somehow agreeing that Sophie was doing well would someday be used against me in a court of the law of special ed.

“She’s just SO CUTE!” the principal said – again. “And I hear she’s not really running away anymore, that’s great!”

Actually, Sophie ran out of the classroom last week. But I didn’t mention that. I just smiled some more.

“Annabelle’s awfully smart!” the principal continued, adding that she got a peek at her recent test scores.

I smiled some more and nodded some more.

I wish a caramel-dipped, chocolate covered pretzel could drop from the heavens with a note attached (and hey, how about one with no calories, that would be a feat) telling me what to do with this principal. Because like it or not, I’m stuck with her if I want to keep Sophie at this school — and I do, very much, for now at least.

Even as cynical and scared as I am, I have to admit she’s making real progress.

Today my mom and I celebrated Hanukkah with Ms. X’s kindergarteners. After several years of well-meaning attempts, we’ve finally perfected our act — just the right amount of information (me) balanced with a lot of goofy story telling and dancing (her).

As you might recall, I’ve been hesitant to spend much time in the classroom, because Sophie tends to stop everything to focus on my presence. But today, we had a little Hanukkah miracle — or, at least, a small turning point.

Sophie waved when I arrived, and made sure Ms. X knew I was there, but she stayed in her spot on the carpet and did everything she was told for the entire visit. She was happy but calm, and seemed more grown up than I’ve ever seen her, despite the fact she’s still literally half the height of most of her classmates.

She raised her hand along with the others when I asked questions about Hanukkah (I was glad she’d taken off the Santa hat she’d insisted on wearing to school) and mentioned a dreidel when I asked what the kids knew about the holiday, which was more than any of the others knew. (Of course, she’s the only Jew, but still.) When we talked about Hanukkah foods cooked in oil, she did mention bacon as an option, but I can’t blame her — we eat pig. And bacon’s greasy, so she was close, right?

When it came time to pretend to light the candles, she stood proudly before the menorah, hands before her eyes, just like our friend Anna.

She barely looked up when I came by to say goodbye, happily doing her work at her desk. (With some assistance with the scissors.) She smiled a big smile, kissed me, and went back to her cutting.

I would dip myself in a vat of hot caramel and roll in chocolate if it would ensure more mornings like this morning. I’m definitely signing up for a regular volunteer slot in the classroom, after the holiday break.

The Enalapril is still in the fridge. I saw it tonight when I put the vanilla back. (Four batches of chocolate chip and two of ginger chocolate — not a bad dough night.)

It’s been weeks since Sophie’s check up, at least a month since the cardiologist took her off the medication designed to keep her blood presure low. No one ever said it, but the reason’s obvious: It was meant to keep the pressure off her newly mended valve.

When he wrote the prescription, the cardiologist said they really didn’t know if this would help or not, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt, so why not? And so for months, twice a day (even on vacations — and required refrigerationa) we gave Sophie her medicine. Luckily she loved it, insisted on pushing the syringe herself.

It’s expensive stuff. The co-pay is $50 and the prescription had to be refilled at a specialty apothecary, about every month. It’ll be weird to go through medical receipts to add up that flex-ben money I’ve got to grab before year’s end. 

And now, poof, she doesn’t need it anymore. I guess. It’s not like it would be good, it’s probably expired already. But something won’t let me toss it.

Ray, either.

“Who’s going to be the one to throw the Enalapril out?” he asked a while ago.

I shrugged and changed the subject, thinking inside, “Not me.”

It probably wasn’t doing anything, but it was nice to have an effort to make. Without formal religion in the house, now it’s just a wishing game. I cuddle with Sophie and cup my hand over the big bump on her chest and feel her heart pounding, and wonder.

What more can I say?

“It smells like plastic,” I said.

“Well, it is plastic,” Ray replied matter of factly, as he draped red and green lights over the fake tree.

I didn’t mention that my throat was starting to itch.

RED AND GREEN. Not a tasteful white, or some cool “in” color. But I had vowed to myself that I wouldn’t complain, even when he came home with a $2 tree topper — and other items – from Walgreen’s. He did red and green on the bottom and started to do white on the top. I couldn’t help it.

“You know, it won’t look so much like it came in two pieces if you do all red and green.”

He stopped to consider that, then took the white down. I also weighed in on the royalblue garland, which I pointed out was a little patriotic when mixed with the bright red one.

If I’d known we were going to have a full-sized (well, almost) tree, I would have ordered one of the cute tree skirts I’ve been seeing on etsy.com. But there isn’t time. So I rummaged in Sophie’s room and found a plain red fleece blanket.

“That’s perfect!” Ray announced, wrapping it and standing up to survey his handiwork, with all the pride of Charlie Brown in the video we’d just finished watching.

I decided to deep-six my bah hum bugs, and got out the boxes of ornaments. Soon the girls’ annual holiday crafts were hanging next to my collection of paper mache birds and felt snowmen, and I had to admit there was a certain beauty to the combined family effort, even if I was now beginning to itch all over.

Life is a work in progress. (A rough draft of history, we call it in journalism — usually when we’re trying to sooth a colleague who’s made a dumb mistake.) OK, so no live tree this year, and even the silver tinsel one is back in the closet. But the girls were thrilled with the one we got, and Ray settled down happily to channel surf.

When I’m not worrying about poisoning my kids with a tree no doubt made in China (I’m not going to look!) I can contemplate how I’ve poisoned their minds. I had lunch today with two good friends, both of whom have young kids. I was telling a story that somehow involved the girls’ letters to Santa when my friend Mayan interrupted.

“You don’t tell them Santa Claus is real, do you?”

“Um, yeah,” I said, expecting a reminder that I’m Jewish (like both of these women). But this had nothing to do with Judaism.

“Really? You do?” she asked, pausing to level her gaze. “You know, I just can’t lie to my kids.”

My friend Kacey looked down at her turkey sandwich, obviously a little embarrassed. She’s not as blunt. I turned to her.

“So what about the tooth fairy?”

“Oh. Well, I told Kate that the tooth fairy lives in her imagination.”

That one got kudos from Mayan. (If they’d been guys there would have been high-fiving.) And I had to agree it was a great line. Too late, though. I’ve already sprinkled the mushrooms in the fairy ring with glitter, written the notes from Tabitha Fairchild, and game planned with my in-laws over Santa.

And you know, I might change my mind tomorrow, but for tonight I’m feeling like that’s one rough draft I’m happy to keep as is. What’s a fib here and there when the trade off is magic?

Maybe I’ve inhaled too much plastic tree.