As the mother of a two-year-old, I expect my holiday season to be the stereotypical whirlwind: decorating the house and tree, baking cookies for her preschool, visiting the mall to see Santa Claus, extra trips to the stationer to buy more cards for friends I inevitably left off my master list, and at least one late-night wrapping session. The remarkable part of this scenario is that I am looking forward to this Christmas like a giddy schoolgirl, despite the fact that I will be going into my third trimester - and will undoubtedly be too exhausted for much of the merrymaking.

I find myself questioning why this year, of all years, I have aligned myself with the commercial calendar that begins advertising the spirit of the season almost as soon as we have eaten that last bite of leftover blueberry pie from our Labor Day picnics. Sometime before carving the Halloween pumpkin, I casually slipped into the Santa Claus routine, probing my daughter for any hint of enthusiasm or even recognition of the Christmas holidays to come. Perhaps it started innocently enough as a simplistic way to explain when her baby sister would be born: first we go trick-or-treating, then we eat turkey at Thanksgiving, next comes Christmas and Santa Claus, and then, finally, Mardi Gras brings our new baby in between (hopefully, not during) the parades. But when I saw her blank expression at the mention of Santa Claus, I fumbled, trying to explain in a meaningful way the traditions that we celebrate at Christmas time.

I felt almost sheepish guilt at having focused first on the more materialistic vision of the holiday, where Santa Claus brings presents to good little girls and boys. This will be the first Christmas where our daughter actually has some level of awareness and interaction with her world. I feel a heavy responsibility to impress upon her the real miracle of Christmas before she gets to an age where her friends begin to compare Santa letters and she figures out that, to many, it is all about what lies in wait under the tree. But how do I keep her even mildly interested without resorting to cartoonish depictions of a fat, bearded man in a red suit who travels via flying reindeer and oversees the production of marvelous toys by little men in similar attire? And how do I explain my overwhelming desire for her to experience both the mystical and the fantastical traditions of the season?

For most of us, aside from the religious beliefs at the heart of it all, Christmas represents the spirit of giving, a time when our greeting cards share sentiments of peace and joy, and our friends and families unite to celebrate their collective histories. The weather turns colder, or in our case, less humid, and we feel the urge to bundle up, metaphorically speaking: to turn our focus inward, and wrap ourselves in the warmth that we feel when we reach out to others, whether they are loved ones or our neighbors in need. Now more than ever, it does seem that we need this time of reflection, a time to celebrate miracles and to look beyond the materialism that our overly commercial society showers upon us.

In some ways, the miracle of Christmas and the materialistic part of the holiday are not mutually exclusive. After all, gift giving is really a celebration of my love and admiration for the recipient, and if she happens to be my own, precious child, the look of wonder and anticipation on her eager face on Christmas morning is truly miraculous!

Of course, as a mother, everything my child does fills me with awe and appreciation and boundless love. Well, maybe not the tantrums and moments of complete defiance. But, even though I no longer marvel at her every burp and giggle, I am still struck dumb at random moments by the miracle of her. I’ll be sitting at my desk reading email and suddenly feel an urge to rub my cheek in the place where she kissed me goodbye two hours earlier. Or I may be doing something as mundane as moving the wet clothes to the dryer, and, upon finding a small sock stuck in a crevice in the washing machine, be suddenly reminded of the wonderful belly laughs that ensue when I catch her off-guard and tickle her little feet.

While we all celebrate such milestone moments and personal miracles every day in our own homes, to me, Christmas brings with it the reminder to take time to reflect on the traditions that draw us towards each other in a collective celebration of life and love. And if in the giving of gifts, even if it is the latest Barbie or Batman gadget, you receive a singular, spectacular moment when another person’s joy becomes even more precious and gratifying than your own, then that is a miracle in and of itself.

Last year on Christmas Eve, much to my sleepy, over-partied husband’s chagrin, I officially joined the inescapable “Santa Club.” Late at night, I arranged and rearranged the wagon of toys that “Santa Claus” delivered to our sweet, slumbering one-year-old. While she was blissfully unaware of the surprises that lay in store for her, I was unable to sleep, wanting everything to be perfect for her, even though I knew she would not remember the day. In the wee hours of the morning, I crept through the house one last time to make sure the stockings were all in a row.

Suddenly, after all these years, I felt a kinship with my own mother and the countless Christmas Eves she spent putting together dollhouses and bicycles, while still getting up at the crack of dawn to whip up our favorite gingerbread for our Christmas breakfast. And I finally fully appreciated the simple, inexpressible anticipation of joy that I felt from my parents as they watched my sister and me rip into our Christmas stockings way back when.

If what they say is true, that children mirror what they see in their parents’ faces, I know my daughter’s joy at Christmastime will be simply uncontainable. And the true miracle of Christmas, the tradition of joy in giving that I received from my parents and most wanted to pass on to my children, will continue.

Copyright 2003, M&L Publishing, all rights reserved.