It's the most wonderful time of the year

And by wonderful, I mean: expensive, jam packed busy, commercialized, superfluous and energy inefficient.  It's not even December yet and I'm already exhausted.  Even so, there are gems of the holiday season, most of which revolve around watching my daughters experience it.  And also, I confess, singing along to Robert Earl Keen's lude, crude Merry Christmas to the Family, a smackdown Cranium game with the family under the influence of wine, food I usually don't eat under normal circumstances, and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.  There.  Now you know. 

I'll admit, I have a long list of gifts the girls probably don't need.  I'm tempted to buy them stuff I think they'd love, but then I know that's not the point.  I don't remember the toys when I was little.  Waiting to discover the toys?  Yes, I remember that part well, but not so much the toys themselves.  I remember candlelight service on Christmas Eve and riding home on a crisp December night with my cheek pressed against the car window in effort to spot Santa slipping through the starry sky.  I remember my brothers sleeping in my room Christmas Eve, all of us sprawled across two twins pushed into one another, and waking up together to race out shrieking in discovery of Santa's delivery.  I remember celebrating with my cousins, and my father's gourmet homemade Christmas lunch.  I remember my grandfather hiding dollar bills in the tree limbs, and my grandmother's creamed eggs.  I remember marveling at the tree and recollecting all the handmade, laminated picture, glued seashells on popsicle sticks kind of ornaments that decorated our kitschy artisan tree. That's what I remember. 

And now it's her turn.

Even though I don't want to give in to total commercialism, the girls will not go giftless.  Not even close, I'm afraid.   I'm checking this list twice: matching retro tin Hello Kitty lunch boxes, Magna Tiles,  Customized photo books of them with family, band in a box, A game, and an outfit or two each because the grow so darn fast.  And then there's the grandparent spoilage, which negates all attempts at moderation.