I just wrote a post on a totally non-Christmas related topic but I can’t bring myself to post it because it feels like a breach of etiquette to talk about something other than evergreens and lights. But here’s the truth: when I came downstairs this morning and squatted by the Christmas tree to plug the lights in, the needles jabbed me rudely in the head and I thought, How many more days till we can take this thing down?

This morning I yelled at the kids to do (or not do) something and I realized, Ooh, I haven’t yelled for thirty-six hours. This feels great! And then I yelled some more, just to get myself back in top yelling shape.

This year, Christmas has felt noticeably bulky. I’ve been acutely aware of its awkward heft, like a bunch of hours strung together into a tightrope that I’m supposed to get across with three pounds of butter in one hand, a sack of gifts in the other, and a gallon of heavy whipping cream on my head.

Please everyone.
Be happy.
Keep the house clean.
Smile and appreciate.
Pig out.
Spread joy.
Rhapsodize and revel.
Embrace the ones you love.

But sometimes the ones you love step on the rising dinner rolls.

Metaphoric truth-telling facts aside, I did have a good Christmas. Top of the Oh My, Isn’t This Lovely! list was our copycat tablescape which my older daughter made at my request. We even cracked out the iron and pressed the linen tablecloth which used to belong to my husband’s grandfather (I think?), and I dismantled an old piano book for the sheet music place mats (if you’re going to copycat, you might as well go all out). Our Christmas Eve supper of cheeses, fruits, pickles, olives, meats, and eggnog was, according to my younger son, “The best meal in the whole world!” There was a spontaneous art-making session devoid of any sibling squabbles (bliss). And my parents came over for a mid-afternoon dinner and then whiled away the rest of the day eating, playing cards and doing science experiments with the kids, sleeping, washing dishes, and visiting. I knitted by the fire while leisurely visiting with my mother and it was enchanting. The children stuffed themselves on sugar and no one threw up.

When I started this post, I was sipping wine and munching on leftover cheese ball and crackers. (And before that, I was sipping leftover eggnog and munching spiced nuts.) I even mentioned I was doing so in the very beginning of the post, but then I deleted it because that’s what I do when I write. I delete almost everything. Anyway, the cheese ball was part of our Christmas Eve supper.

I already had a bunch of cheeses and meats ready to go—mozzarella and prosciutto roll, rosemary and olive oil asiago, soppresatta, smoked Gouda with bacon, nameless hard cheese that resembles Parmesan, cranberry and cinnamon goat cheese (and the kids went wild)—but I decided a cheese ball, though not necessary, would be appropriate. So I made the most basic recipe I could fine and it was delicious and so I’m telling you about it now.

Cheese Ball
From about.com. (I told you it was basic.)

I used a white cheddar cheese because 1) I like the all-white ball effect, and 2) it’s what I had.

8 ounces cream cheese
8 ounces sharp cheddar cheese
2 teaspoons grated onion (more like onion mush)
2 teaspoons finely minced garlic
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
½ – 1 cup finely chopped pecans

Cream together the cheeses. Beat in the onion, garlic and Worcestershire sauce. Shape into a ball. (If the mixture is too soft, let it firm up in the fridge for an hour.) Put the nuts in a shallow bowl and roll the ball in the nuts until every inch of cheesy surface is covered. Cover with plastic and store in the fridge until ready to serve.

There. Now I’ve addressed the Christmas happenings and can move on to non-seasonal postings. Stay tuned!

I’ve checked with several sources and the verdict is unanimous: Christmas is a lot of work.

When else do you choose to add “poking thread through popcorn” to your list of daily tasks? Isn’t the cooking, laundry, house pick-up, errands, and simply existing enough already? It’s crazy, guys. We’re up to our eyeballs in planning for family gatherings and then to top it all off we have to pick out a tree and decorate it, listen to music, be relaxed and festive, bake an insane amount of cookies, go to parties, and feel happy-appy-appy all the time. No wonder half the world’s breakdowns happen in December.

What makes it all the more stressful is that these extra, celebratory activities must be done together, as a family. Ho, ho, ho and a bottle of rum, please.

Under normal circumstances, my family does things well together for about 23.4 minutes. Even within that time frame there are the wobblings of breakdowns and and a few sharp reprimands to keep everyone in line. The fact is, the entire time we’re merry-making, we’re teetering on the brink of disaster. This is nerve-racking, at best, and at worst, it’s flat-out terrifying.

Last week we had five nights in a row of family activities: plays, concerts, a star show, etc. Plus, there was company and tree-getting and tree-decorating and cookie-making and house-cleaning and food-and-stocking-shopping and hot-chocolate-and-donuts-at-bedtime and, and, and… By Sunday afternoon, I was shot. I couldn’t bear one more minute of let’s-be-jolly togetherness. So my husband took all four kids shopping for underwear and I snoozed on the sofa and went for a walk. It was great. Except then they came home (why does that always come as such a shock?) and we had our family movie in the late afternoon followed by another Christmas play, a play in which I had the honor of sitting beside The Child Who Never Ceases To Move and then three kids (of mine! who know better!) filched extra cookies from the refreshment platters and I pretty much lost it all over again. When Monday arrived in all its blank-calendar glory, it was such a relief.

Getting the Christmas tree was fun. Everything was covered in fresh snow and we were the only ones up in the fields (at the start). There were snowball battles. And my older son ran up behind my oblivious husband and yanked his feet out from under him so that he first hung in the air, horizontal with the ground, before crashing face-first into the snow. He came up sputtering, but when he saw me and my son convulsing with mirth, staggering around the field and nearly falling down, he laughed, too. (Later we tried to have a serious talk with our son about why that trick’s not such a good idea because broken bones, but, hahaha, boy oh boy, heeheehee.)

While we were trekking all over the place in search of evergreen perfection, it began to snow. I don’t think I’ve ever picked out a Christmas tree in the falling snow. It was magic, I tell you, pure magic. I had to slip my camera down in my shirt to keep it dry. It made me look mechanically (maniacally?) pregnant, but I didn’t care. It was snowing!

The children delivered the tree to the worker men for shaking, wrapping, and loading, and we all headed over to the springhouse to warm up by the fire and drink hot chocolate and suck on candy canes.

Now the tree is up and, as I type this, the kids are fighting over whose ornaments are whose. Why am I not surprised?