The girls spent the night at my mom’s house on Thanksgiving. I took the opportunity Friday morning to drag all the bins marked XMAS out of the holiday closet  and burn new copies of my favorite holiday music mixes so that we’d ready to start celebrating as soon as possible.

“Oh no. No Christmas music,” Sophie said when she got in the car later that day.

“C’mon, it’s after Thanksgiving,” I said. Sophie is a rule follower and even though she’s always been a big fan of Christmas, she understands that it has its time and place — from the day after Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve. Once in a while I’ll catch her watching “Elf” in the summer, but for the most part she obeys the edict. And has always been eager to unveil the holiday goods on the appropriate day.

Not this year.

“It’s too soon! We just had Thanksgiving! Take a break,” she said, leaning over to switch off the CD player.

A week later, the XMAS bins are still sitting in the living room, unpacked, under a similar quarantine. I’m afraid to bring up the topic of a tree.

We’ve had Christmas issues in the past. For as long as I can remember, Sophie has worried about Santa coming into her bedroom. (The Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny and Leprechan also raise similar — and I say understandable — fears, fears typically assuaged with a note relegating them all to the vicinity of the fireplace.) Sophie claims she still believes in Santa, but has cooled on the whole letter-writing front. This year I told her no list without a letter — it seems rude — and she was silent for several days, then announced she’d write Santa a letter, but she preferred to text it, so could I please find his phone number. She texted me the draft of her list.

I looked at the list and wondered if the collision of puberty and make-believe is too much for her. I mean, Santa can’t get many requests for feminine hygiene products. I made a mental note to add “Bra Night” to “Sock Night” and “Underwear Night” when Hanukkah rolls around.

But what about Christmas? I love Christmas. It’s one of the few things Ray and I actually agree upon, although I often catch him rolling his eyes this time of year, as I haul giant sacks of flour into the house for cookies and fill the fridge with homemade egg nog. Annabelle loves it, too. And Sophie – well, you might know the stereotype. People with Down syndrome love Christmas!

Not Sophie. Maybe not, anyway.

I’ve tried to ask her what’s up. She’s mum on the subject.

It could be as simple as a desire to be in control. Sophie knows how desperate I am to unpack those bins and hang the stockings, put up the handmade mistletoe and decorate the mantle. Maybe she’s just holding me back because she can. Maybe she’s afraid of Santa. Maybe she’s taking her Jewish roots seriously after her bat mitzvah (highly unlikely).

Or maybe, as she told me the other day, she really does hate Christmas.

Annabelle has been dispatched to get to the bottom of this whole Christmas-hating thing — I’m hoping she’ll report back soon.

I had a glimmer of hope this morning as we were driving to school. “You can put on the Christmas mix,” Sophie said, grudgingly.

“You don’t have to ask me twice!” I said, popping it into the CD player and filling the car with Ingrid Michaelson’s version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie singing along to my favorite Christmas carol. I smiled. Maybe tonight I’ll try putting out the holiday dish towels.