By Grace Acosta

One bleak afternoon, I flicked on our outdoor Christmas lights early, thinking they would make a cheery welcome for my kids when they arrived home from school.

My daughter noticed them immediately, and when I explained that I had flipped them on for her benefit, she replied, “Oh, I thought for sure you turned them on by accident or something.” Such is my reputation in the family for being very Grinch-like during the holidays.

You wouldn’t know it now, but as a child I loved Christmas. Every year, my father got a modest tree at “el mercado,” buying late because the prices dropped as Christmas day neared.

We never bothered to put the tree in water; we left it mounted on its wooden stakes. (I always presumed that dry, brittle needles were just part of the tree’s natural life cycle.) And, because I attended Catholic school, the celebration of Christmas as a spiritual rather than a commercial holiday was emphasized throughout December. “Don’t ever write the word ‘Christmas’ with an ‘X,’” my teachers warned, “because that means you’re x-ing God out of your life!”

Flash-forward to adulthood, and my memories of the holidays morph into packing a van-load of children, dog and presents and leaving our own finely appointed tree - which gets plenty of TLC and “Keep It Green” Christmas tree preservative - to drive several hundred miles to Southern California to spend the holidays with people who aren’t interested in anything I have to say. It’s not exactly a seasonal nightmare for me, but neither is it a dream come true.

This year, however, we are staying home for Christmas, celebrating in our own fashion. Now, to be honest, I don’t believe that Christ was actually born in December. When I saw a woman at the bakery with a cake inscribed “Happy Birthday, Jesus Christ,” my mind conjured up an image of Jesus sitting with the Apostles at Chuck E. Cheese’s. However, I am all for the spirit of the season, and because songs that glorify joy and proclaim good will toward men are getting kind of rare, the gospel choir concert in the city for which my husband bought tickets seems a worthwhile activity, even to a grump like me.

This year, all I want for Christmas is to sit and relax with the Pine Cone Family, which consists of three pine cones painted by my daughter when she was in nursery school. The family is brought out only at Christmastime.

Each pinecone has a pair of glued-on googly-eyes and is draped in a piece of cloth or ribbon. The largest one sports red plaid; I believe he is a male visiting relation from Scotland who normally enjoys mutton and Scotch whisky around the holidays. He has long wondered why I am always racing out the door, frenetic and tense, when I should be singing up a storm like a Who down in Whoville.

I think of him as an untraditional, idiosyncratic representative of our family’s holiday celebration, and I am certain he thinks the same of me. Perhaps this is the year when we will both fit right in.

Happy holidays to everyone, and cheers to the New Year!