It was New Year’s evening at my brother’s house. Pizza dinner was over, paper plates tossed, and The Banshee and I were just hanging out at the table.

“So, Banshee,” I said, “have you thought about your New Year’s resolutions?”

She furrowed her pale brow at me. “What’s a resolution?”

“Oh, well, it’s like a goal. Something you’d like to do or accomplish in the new year.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“So can you think of anything — anything you really want to do in 2009?”

“Uhhh ….. nooo.” Her eyes narrowed at me.

So, randomly, I began offering suggestions.

“Hm. I’ll bet you want to …… learn how to change Baby Banshee’s diaper?”

“Ew. No!”

“Maybe you want toooo ….. live inside a log?”

“Tee Tee! No!”

“Hm. I’ll bet you want to …. sleep on a bed of wet noodles?”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “TEE TEE!”

“I’m just trying to help,” I shrugged. “Can you think of something?”

Her little face screwed up in concentration.

“Well …. I wanna grow taller!”

“Grow taller? That’s good. Why don’t we get a pen and write these down?”

Her eyes lit up. Suddenly, she was all over that. She scurried into the kitchen, rummaging in a drawer until she found a pen and note pad. At first, she wanted to do the writing, which she can do, a little bit, but then decided I’d be faster at it. So I labeled the top of the paper Banshee’s 2009 Resolutions and wrote Grow Taller in the number one position with a flourish.

Something had clicked for her somehow. As I pointed and read it to her, her eyes glowed with delight, but when I asked her for another one, her face faltered, puckered. She couldn’t think of one. So I started again with my weird random suggestions. If I hit on something she didn’t like, she scrunched her nose and, pfffft, it was gone; if I mentioned something she did like, she crowed a huge “Yeaah!” and I wrote it down. We went on like this at great length until we had a list of ten goals.

So I present to you now …. The Banshee’s 2009 Resolutions:

(Well, um, as prompted by me, Tee Tee)

1. Grow taller

2. Learn to drive a car

3. Learn to ride an elephant

4. Make a TV from a cardboard box (she was very excited about this one, who knew?)

5. Be in a Broadway show

6. Run my own movie theater

7. Learn to make hats

8. Learn to make chocolate cake

9. Grow my own vegetables — tomatoes, carrots, and lettuce (she was quite adamant on the choice of those three, specifically)

10. Learn to make my own salad dressing

Once the list was done, I ahem-ed loudly to the rest of the room and helped her in a David Letterman-like reading of her 2009 goals. Once that was done, she grabbed her “phone” — an old non-working cell phone — and proceeded to call everyone she knew in the whole entire world to inform them of her list, like this:

fake rinng fake rinnng …..

“Oh, hi, Cal. This is The Banshee. May I speak to Sienna? (Hahaha. I loved how she had to ask for Sienna.) Hi, Sienna. I have a list of goals you need to hear. Umm …. I want to ….. uh, Tee Tee? What’s the first one?”

“Grow taller.”

“Yeah. Grow taller. And thenn ….. um, what’s the next one?”

“Learn to drive a car.”

“Oh! Yeah! Learn to drive a car!”

And on it went through the phone call, with me prompting her through the list, but by the time she “called” her cousin Piper, she could say them all, no problem.

“And Piper, I wanna grow my own vegetables, too! Tomatoes and carrots and lettuce! Okay. ‘Bye, Piper!”

“So how did that go?” I asked.

“Good.”

“What did Piper think of your list?”

“She said it was great.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Yeaah!”

She beamed at me and scampered off to post her list on the fridge.

But, frankly, she’s on her own on that cardboard box TV.

My Beloved and I were up at my brother’s for New Year’s day, hanging out in our flannel jammie bottoms and Ugg boots. It’s basically de rigueur at my brother’s on New Year’s day: Flannel jammie bottoms and Ugg boots. Please do not attempt to wear actual street clothing. You will be overdressed and feel like a muttonhead.

In a stunning move, The Banshee crawled into my lap while I was sitting on the floor, turned to face me, and began describing in great detail her trip to Disneyland last week. She LOVED Pirates of the Carribean, was not the least bit scared by it — and she’s four. If you grew up in Southern California, as I did, you basically have that ride memorized. You know every single swashbuckling moment. So as she described it — um, inch by watery inch — I knew exactly what she was talking about. At one point, her little voice got all loud and quavery, like every Jacob Marley I have ever seen, and she said, grabbing my cheeks for emphasis:

“TEE~EE TEE~EE~E!! THE SKEL~E~T-O~N~N~N PIR~A~A~A~TE WAA~AS DR~I~I~IN~NK~I~I~N~NN~G I~NNT~O HIS SKKE~E~LE~TO~O~N~NNN!!!!”

Her eyes were bulging blue as she wailed this into my face. She may not have been terrified, but I was.

And you know who always gets blamed for these theatrics? Me. ME. Lil’ ol ME! What did I do??

Sheesh. People.

**************

Later at nap time, she begged me to come upstairs and read the book we had brought with us as her Christmas present, When the Sky is Like Lace, a recommendation I got from Sheila’s blog, oh, a few years ago now. The Banshee loves books. LOVES ‘em. When she was even younger, I’d catch her on occasion dragging them around as if they were toys or babbling along, pretending to read them. Now I was a little concerned that some of this book may be over her head, but, again, she’s — empirically — very very bright. And I’m not just being biased, although I am boasting, which is empirically gross.

We began.

I said the name of the book.

“What does that mean, Tee Tee, ‘the sky is like lace’”?

I didn’t want to explain it, not to be withholding, but for her to experience it herself, so I said, “Let’s read the book and see.”

She snuggled up to me. As the book went on, I watched her face, her reaction. She was very still. Wide-eyed. On certain pages, she pointed to the things named in the text. Things I didn’t think she’d even know, like “chartreuse” or “clam-digging.” But she knew. It’s a brilliant book. A gorgeous book. On the very last page, there’s an illustration with this huge purple sky and silvery white clouds. The Banshee just stared at it for a moment, then whispered, “Look, Tee Tee. The sky is like lace.”

Yep, kid. I knew you’d get it.

Even later, when she woke up from her nap, she begged for the book again, climbing into my lap with it. At one point, the book talks about the grass being like “gooseberry jam” and soft like the velvet of an old violin case. I stroked the page as I read, the part of the page with the gooseberry lawn, and The Banshee said, “Tee Tee, I’d want to be barefoot so I could feel the velvet violin.”

And I can’t describe it exactly, that moment with The Banshee, but it’s like I felt something dawning, something sinking in. I blinked some sudden tears from my eyes.

Then I kept reading.

Because I am flush with Twilight saga fever. It’s true. It’s BAD. Basically, you turn into a teenage girl reading these books. Or, perhaps more accurately, you must turn into a teenage girl to truly enjoy the books. That’s what I think it is. Although, if you can’t or don’t want to remember the thrill of teenaged swooning, this probably isn’t the series for you.

I grabbed Twilight off the book shelf when we found ourselves at WalMart, of all places, on Christmas Eve morning, of all days, searching desperately and unsuccessfully all over town for chains, of all things, for our stupid car. We were supposed to be on the road already, to the deep dark middle of nowhere, but we’d heard a storm was coming along the pass where we’d be driving. And WalMart — a store I loathe for many reasons but mostly because, damn, them blue vests are grody — was, oh, our fourth bust of the morning, something like that? At that point, we were three hours behind schedule and hating each other a lot earlier than planned. As I wandered around the snack aisles, making eyes at the Little Debbie Snack Cakes, I suddenly realized I hadn’t packed any books. No. Books. Oh, no. NO. Sweet baby Jesus, NOOO!! I began to panic. One cannot go up to the deep dark middle of nowhere without being armed with a book to keep one from killing oneself and Twilight seemed the least objectionable of the selection available at GrodyVestMart.

But now I’m hooked. HOOKED. GAGA. HELPLESS AGAINST ITS POWER. Once I neared the end of book one, I even ventured to the one and only bookstore in the deep dark middle of nowhere hoping against hope that they’d have book two. When I saw they didn’t, I suffered a severe internal flip out and slowed waa-a-a-aay down on book one so I would not be bookless in the boonies. Once home, I basically sprinted to my bookstore and purchased the next two books — um, unmatching, such is my frenzy now. I mean, my version of Book One, Twilight, is a small paperback, with the movie Edward and Bella on the cover. My version of Book Two, New Moon, is a larger paperback, black with a flower, part of a whole cohesive look. And I bought the third book in hard cover, for Lord’s sake, because it’s not out in paperback yet and I simply had to have it on hand. The cover matches the look of my Book Two, but it’s hard cover. Nuts. I don’t buy hard covers. Or last time I did was during the Harry Potter frenzy. Sadly, I anticipate buying the fourth in hard cover too because I will need it. Like, Friday. I’m sure once my feeding frenzy has passed, the asymmetry of my collection of these books will really freak me out.

Finished book two in one day — today. Book three is for tomorrow, I guess.

Oh, and also? I even dragged MB to the Twilight movie yesterday with all the squealing teenage girls. I mean, I think we were the only people who weren’t squealing teenage girls. Still, not enough of a deterrent. Couldn’t you have waited for it to come out on DVD, Trace? No. No, I could not. Because I actually CHECKED and it’s not scheduled for that until Feb. or March. So yes. We went to the movie and looked like chaperoning weirdo parents or something. Whatevs. I do not care anymore. Gimme more teenage vampires. Gimme more star-crossed adolescent love. Gimme. Gimme. Now. I am completely vamped out.

(And …. I just clicked over and saw Sheila’s post about her books read this year and she mentioned this same thing. Just found that as I was writing this. Hahahaha.)

All this to say: Um, excuse me, I cannot talk to you right now …..

Oh, but Happy New Year!

2008, you can suck it. Boo-bye to you!

Longest trip ever to the deep dark middle of nowhere.

I am now in Christmas recovery, rehab, detox, whatever you want to call it.

Stories to tell ….

Hope you all are having a lovely holiday season!

Oh, PS: Somehow the Chargers managed to make the playoffs beating the Broncos on Sunday, 52-21. Um, we finished 8-8. Hahahahaha. It’s a CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!!

MB and I head off tomorrow morning — Christmas Eve morning — for the deep dark middle of nowhere and the steady stream of people barging through unlocked doors and the looming snowy mountains and the room with the tortoise in the drawer.

(We may have to drive with these things called “chains.” God help us all.)

Merry Christmas, one and all! See you next week!

So this time, I’m at the bookstore to Christmas shop. And for pity’s sake, it’s today, Christmas Eve Eve, yet, apparently, I engage in this activity without any nod to reality or consequences or the fact that other people actually exist.

Within 10 minutes, however, I behold the snaking line — 5,000 selfish shoppers deep — and retreat, hyperventilating, to the refuge of the store cafe, with a small coffee and a Real Simple magazine. I’m always drawn to this magazine with the condescending name, hoping against hope every time that I will suddenly find that everything IS real simple after all. But, obviously, Real Simple has never been to this particular bookstore on Christmas Eve Eve. So, you know, do shut up, Real Simple.

Next to me, at a larger table, sits a little man with slick dark hair. His tucked-in shirt is red, his belted jeans are “mom,” his tennis shoes and socks are black. When I glance down, I can see his black socks peeking beneath his mom jeans with large red letters proclaiming USA! His companion, an older woman, sits across from him, wearing huge googly glasses. His mom, perhaps? I don’t know. She quietly reads a Gourmet magazine while he noisily spars with the latest edition of Hello! I’m not kidding. He doesn’t just read it; he attacks it, debates it. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him zip through it, turning pages with a wild fling of his arm. Sometimes he stops and thumps the page in dismay, barking to the woman in a foreign guttural tongue. Enraged by the latest photos of Brangelina’s brood? Driven mad by Britney’s shenanigans? Who knows? He looks so mild-mannered, a Turkish Bruce Banner maybe, but I fear his Hello! magazine is pushing him to some horrible Hulking brink. With each outburst, the woman across from him murmurs shhhh …. shhhhhh … soothing him like a colicky baby until he quiets down again.

For maybe thirty minutes, while Real Simple compares olive oils for me, this is the routine: the thumping uproar, the growling upset, the soft shushing. Shhh ….. shhhhhh. They seem accustomed to this procedure, as if it’s some strange companionable groove they’ve carved out over the years.

Thump …. grrrrr …. rrrr ………. shhhh …… shhhhhhhh ….

I never look at him directly, just sideways, but I can see that when he’s done with one magazine, he slams it shut and shoves it to the side to make room for the next one. I have to admire him, really. He’s fully present, fully engaged, doing his thing his way, in his own little world. Nothing and no one else exists for him, it seems. Just those magazines with all those vexing people inside. Each time he’s shushed, even, he responds to the sound, but not to her.

Finally, done with all his magazines, he jumps up and rumbles at her until she gets up, too. As he tromps past me toward the door, I hear him grumble behind me, quick and low, “Merry Christmas!”

And, I don’t know why, really, but I begin to cry.

Seriously, pippa. I am LOVING all your answers to this survey. I keep going back and reading them and cracking up, picturing all of you living your various versions of Christmas.

You guys are great. Hahahahaha.

Well, I suppose it’s not Christmas on this blog unless I trot out my beloved Philip Yancey. Every year at this time, I seem to be excerpting this and excerpting that, so in keeping with that, well, tradition or compulsion, whichever you prefer to call it ….. an excerpt from what I think — I think — is my favorite Yancey book, Disappointment With God. How can a person read that title and not want to read the book? I’ve said this ad nauseum, but I don’t care: Philip Yancey’s books are a life raft to me as a Christian. He gets it. He gets it. He gets how much being a human gets in the way of being a Christian. He just gets it. I love him. I owe him.

Onto the excerpt … a Christmas excerpt. It’s not too long:

“Fear Not”

We hear these words every Christmas season at church pageants when children dress up in bathrobes and act out the story of Jesus’ birth. “Fear not!” lisps the six-year-old angel, his bedsheet costume dragging the ground, his coat-hanger-frame wings flapping ever so slightly from the trembling of his body. He sneaks a glance at the script hidden in the folds of his sleeve. “Fear not, for I bring you good tidings of great joy.” Already he has appeared to Zechariah (his older brother with a taped-on cotton beard) and to Mary (a freckled blonde from the second grade.) He used the same greeting for both, “Fear not! …”

These were also God’s first words to Abraham, and to Hagar, and to Isaac. “Fear not!” the angel said in greeting Gideon and the prophet Daniel. For supernatural beings, that phrase served almost as the equivalent of “Hello, how are you?” Little wonder. By the time the supernatural being spoke, the human being was usually lying face down in a cataleptic state. When God made contact with planet Earth, sometimes the supernatural encounter sounded like thunder, sometimes it stirred the air like a whirlwind, and sometimes it lit up the scene like a flash of phosphorous. Nearly always it caused fear. But the angel who visited Zechariah and Mary and Joseph heralded that God was about to appear in a form that would not frighten.

What could be less scary than a newborn baby with jerky limbs and eyes that do not quite focus? In Jesus, born in a barn or a cave and laid in a feeding trough, God found at last a mode of approach that humanity need not fear. The king had cast off his robes.

Think of the condescension involved: the Incarnation, which sliced history into two parts (a fact even our calendars grudgingly acknowledge), had more animal than human witnesses. Think, too, of the risk. In the Incarnation, God spanned the vast chasm of fear that had distanced him from his human creation. But removing that barrier made Jesus vulnerable, terribly vulnerable.

The child born in the night among beasts. The sweet breath and steaming dung of beasts. And nothing is ever the same again.

Those who believe in God can never in a way be sure of him again. Once they have seen him in a stable, they can never be sure where he will appear or to what lengths he will go or to what ludicrous depths of self-humiliation he will descend in his wild pursuit of man …

For those who believe in God, it means, this birth, that God himself is never safe from us, and maybe that is the dark side of Christmas, the terror of the silence. He comes in such a way that we can always turn him down, as we could crack the baby’s skull like an eggshell or nail him up when he gets too big for that. (Frederick Buechner, The Hungering Dark)

How did Christmas Day feel to God? Imagine for a moment becoming a baby again: giving up language and muscle coordination and the ability to eat solid food and control your bladder. God as a fetus! Or imagine yourself becoming a sea slug — that analogy is probably closer. On that day in Bethlehem, the Maker of All That Is took form as a helpless, dependent newborn.

“Kenosis” is the technical word theologians use to describe Christ emptying himself of the advantages of deity. Ironically, while the emptying involved much humiliation, it also involved a kind of freedom. I have spoken of the “disadvantages” of infinity. A physical body freed Christ to act on a human scale, without those “disadvantages” of infinity. He could say what he wanted without his voice blasting the treetops. He could express anger by calling King Herod a fox or by reaching for a bullwhip in the temple, rather than shaking the earth with his stormy presence. And he could talk to anyone — a prostitue, a blind man, a widow, a leper — without first having to announce, “Fear not!”

Christmas in San Diego.

The Ocean Beach Christmas tree, with beach ball ornaments and inflatable candy canes. Um, naturally.

In the continuing spirit of minding my own business, which is my life, I offer up this Christmas Survey which I insist you do:

(Copy and paste into the comments)

1. Opening presents: Christmas Eve or Christmas morning?

2. What do you do with all the paper as it’s being ripped from presents? What about the ribbon?

3. Do you take turns opening presents or is it a free-for-all?

4. Does someone act like Santa, passing out presents?

5. Do you play Christmas music in the background whilst opening presents?

6. I have just given you a gift of socks. Tell me what you say to make me believe you like them, you really like them.

7. Do you like egg nog?

8. Are there any other kinds of nogs that you’re aware of? If not, why not just call egg nog “nog” if it’s the only nog there is?

9. Are there any pre-dinner drinks or snacks available at your house on Christmas and, if so, what are they?

10. What do you wear for Christmas dinner? If you wear elastic pants and admit it, please know I admire you deeply and may very well fall in love with you. Please do not panic.

11. If you’re not hosting the dinner, do you assist in the pre-dinner prep?

12. If so, have you ever considered starting to play with the nearest child immediately upon your arrival at said Christmas dinner, causing him or her to REQUIRE your delightful company up until the very moment dinner is served thereby making it impossible for you to leave the little angel’s side and assist in the kitchen lest a loud, unsightly tantrum ensue? I’m just sayin’ is all. I myself would not do this, oh no, but I would not judge you should you decide to give it a whirl.

13. What’s for Christmas dinner? Along that same vein, what time should I be there?

14. Do you have a kiddie table and will I be forced to sit there?

15. Who is tipsy at your Christmas dinner, besides me, of course?

16. Is there something that is tradition at your Christmas dinner that you cannot stand or simply do not understand?

17. Turkey: White meat or dark meat?

18. Turducken: I know what it is. I need to know why it is. Please enlighten.

19. Cranberry sauce: yea or nay?

20. What happens after dinner? Napping? Squabbling? Frolf?

21. What’s for dessert?

22. What’s the best Christmas dessert, in your opinion?

23. Now that it’s dessert, who is snockered? You can tell me.

24. How many pieces/helpings of dessert do you have? Just know that whatever number you tell me, I will double it in my head to get closer to the truth, ‘mkay, Peaches?

25. Will Christmas carols be sung loudly and off-key, ad nauseum, until baby Jesus cries?

26. Will you be forced to pose for photos at some point by someone making their giddy artistic vision your immediate personal burden?

27. Finally … Christmas day exit strategy: What’s yours?