From the Things-I’m-Not-Particularly-Proud-Of category, I’ll admit that I wasn’t very nice. “I am SO NOT INTERESTED,” I huffed (and puffed), rushing past him. “Stop bothering people!”

I was in a hurry. In a hurry because I had to get home and get ready to teach Sophie’s second grade class how to play dreidel.

As I neared my house, turning off Queen and wrapping the cord around the Shuffle, it occurred to me, as it often does, that I’m quite a hypocrite. I won’t take this sweet (he looked sweet) man’s pamphlet, but I expect two dozen 7 year olds to sit rapt while I tell them the story of my own religion’s holiday? (And then teach them all to gamble — go Jews!)

I’m not sure if I rationalized it or if I’m right, but by the time I pulled up to school I’d decided not to feel guilty. This is different. This is simply educating the other kids about how Sophie is different from them (oy — for once not how she’s different in that way) without trying to get them to convert.

Of course, chocolate coins can be quite convincing, even if you don’t mean them to. My mother came along and after dreidel she put on some Hanukkah music and everyone danced. It was a lot of fun.

And it was important. To me, anyway. There are very few Jewish kids at our school. Even fewer than I grew up with. I’m sure I’ve told you this story before, but before Annabelle was born, Ray and I had a talk about her Jewish education. Ray’s a fallen Catholic and I’m a shaky Jew, and he’s pretty down on organized religion in general, but he announced over pizza that night that he wanted our kids to know they were Jewish.

“Better they know than someone else tell them,” he explained. I knew exactly what he meant, and it’s stuck with me ever since. So even though we don’t go to temple (much — okay, not at all in the last year), I go to school and teach the other kids about Hanukkah. It’s something to be proud of.

What does that have in common with the I Heart Jesus guy? I don’t know. I think part of what bugged me so much about him was that he was standing near the huge Chabad electric menorah on ASU’s campus, lit for the seventh night of Hanukkah, one of the few signs of Judaism you ever see in a part of this town where it’s impossible to find matzoh meal at Safeway, and where no one’s bought up the frozen latkes at Trader Joe’s.

What I wanted to say to the old guy was, “Can’t you just give us eight days a year? Do you have to get in the way today?”

Instead, I shook my head and kept walking.

Happy Hanukkah.

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 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.