Christmas for my family is both a blessing and a curse.

My mother is a working mom, and this year she got a new job with a company that controls credit card and check transactions. They're basically the middle man that makes sure the store gets your money for your purchase.

Anyway, every year she feels she has to do Christmas.

We beg her not to: cry, wreck the house, write anonymous notes on the family whiteboard. She does it anyway. I think she believes that if she can pull off a decent Christmas, then it means we're a family for another year. Whatever the case, she always does Christmas.

It starts on Black Friday. She takes a half day off of work, and yells at Dad to go into the attic to get the Christmas decorations. After he does nothing, she ends up climbing the rickety ladder herself, carting down boxes bigger than she is.

She then begins the process of setting up all six of our Christmas trees: one big tree for the living room, my tree, my brother's tree, and my youngest brother's three little trees. After cursing, dropping branches, and plastic pine needles getting everywhere, she fluss the trees and puts ribbon on. A different kind for each tree: this year it was plaid for the big tree, white iridescent wire ribbon for my tree, red ribbon for my brother's tree, and white gauzy ribbon for the last three trees.

Then she pulls out the ornaments. Oh god, the ornaments.

Everything you could imagine as an ornament, she has it as an ornament. She even has a pickle one from Germany. She decks out the trees, a theme for each tree: family heirlooms on the big tree, silver and gold stars on mine, Santas on my brother's, and paper ornaments on my youngest brother's tree. She then tops it all with either a bow or an angel. I was "the lucky one": I got the heirloom white crochet angel on top of my tree.

So after that, she pulls out garland after garland of fake holly and pine. She wraps them in lights and ribbon, looping them prettily over every entryway and arch in our house. Each door on the house gets a special ornament: I got a penguin wearing a scarf and hat on mine this year. It's made out of an oversized jingle-bell.

It's after all that goes up that we see the knickknacks: Santa sculptures, Christmas music boxes, stockings, stocking hangers, a giant tin train, nutcrackers, and (for some inexplicable reason) a cheesy Dancing Santa.

It's only after the week of endless decoration that she goes and gets presents. And god, some nights we didn't see her until twelve at night.

I wait up every night, long after the boys are in bed and Dad has left to work the night shift at the factory, waiting for the sound of the garage door opening and Mom coming in, no less than six shopping bags in each hand.

Some nights I had to help her bathe and get to bed, just so she could wake up, go to work, and repeat the process again.

Three weeks usually go by; by the end, it's the first Monday of Christmas Break for us kids, and Mom has taken over the living room and dining room for her Christmas wrapping stations.

As soon as she gets home, she begins wrapping presents, snarling at the boys when they walk into either area without her permission. I can never count how many times she screams at me to get into the hot zones of the wrapping stations so she can have another set of hands help her make bows for the cousin we never see or the uncle we hate.

My fingers are usually bleeding by Tuesday. Wire-edged ribbon is the root of all evil, I'm sure of it.

After all this pain and torture and sleepless nights, she then feels that she has to cook Christmas Eve dinner.

One word: Turkey.

The day before Christmas Eve, I helped her wrap, as usual. The boss had her working extra late, and we were both getting tired. We each were wrapping presents, not bothering with bows this year. Several times I heard scared sobs from my youngest brother's room, but Mom glared when I tried to leave and comfort him. The labels weren't printing right, and I kept confusing one brother's present with another's. The night ended with her yelling about how ungrateful I was as I put the last present under the tree and went to bed. The last thing I remember hearing before falling asleep was her cursing as she wrestled with the printer in her office.

I woke up at six this morning to find her still in the office, pounding away at the keyboard of her computer. I don't think she slept. She took one look at me in my house slippers and turtle robe, a snowman mug of tea in my hand, and sighed.

"Fuck," she said, "I forgot the turkey."

I chop celery for stuffing as she hacks at the bag of giblets inside of the turkey. I'm impressed with her as she wields the ice pick with a fury.

Last year she made the turkey with the bag still inside.

She shoos me out a half hour later, telling me to take a bath and make myself look presentable for the family coming in. Dad comes in from the garage, the door closing behind him. He takes a look at me, still in my turtle robe, and smirks.

"She forgot the turkey?"

"Yeah."

"Want doughnuts?"

"Yeah. Shipley's."

After Dad leaves again, I run upstairs to my room, the only room on the top floor. Filling the tub with warm water, I pop a few lavender-colored bath pearls, strip, and ease in. I amuse myself by prodding the bubbles that are forming, and turn off the tap when the bubbles go up to my collarbone. I take a deep breath, and plunge my head underwater. My heartbeat thuds in my ears as the phone rings. Emergency One.

After scrubbing my hair and skin, the garage door opens again. Dad's home. I grab my towel and dry myself, chafing the pink back into my skin. I blow-dry my wet hair, brush my teeth, dress, and I'm putting on my makeup when the phone rings again. Emergency Two.

I trip down the stairs, two at a time. Mom is standing at the stove, ear pressed to the phone as she tries to boil enough water to fill the sink, where our iceberg of a turkey sits, naked.

I grab a doughnut, and retreat to the cold porch. The boys are surprisingly still asleep. I am grateful to the powers that be for that.

Dad is dozing on the couch when I get back in. Mom is putting on her coat, getting ready to come into work. They apparently couldn't function without her.

"Turkey won't be ready in time, so here's a twenty. Get your stepfather to drive you to HEB for a premade turkey." She looks defeated as she says this, and I smile at her to tell her I don't think less of her for this one slip-up. I prod Dad, passing along the message as Mom drives off.

I leave Dad to prepare the rest of Christmas Eve dinner after jamming the store-bought turkey into a lukewarm oven to keep it warm. I wake up the boys and have them get dressed and cleaned up for the guests. Twice I hear breaking glass, and I mourn the loss of whatever kitchen helper was just lost to Dad's butterfingers.

The boys clean and ready, I give them permission to play catch and foursquare on the snowless front lawn. They pull on coats, and I make another cup of tea while Dad finally finishes the stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, and veggie side dishes. I doze, and get awoken my a loud knock on the front door.

I open it. My aunt and uncle from Chicago, come to lord their self-made money over us working class. The first of a long line of family streaming in.

I pop my iPod into the stereo, cranking up the Christmas playlist I made earlier this week. Family starts to flood the house, and Dad is finally done with the dinner. Now we just need Mom.

I've called three times. Fourth time has to be the charm, right?

I listen to the ringing in the phone while everyone coos over Mom's decorations. I personally think it looks like Santa regurgitated Christmas on the whole house, but everyone else seems to like it, so I say nothing.

"Hello?"

"Mom, everyone's here. Are you coming home?"

God, I sound like a kid. I hear her pause.

"Yeah, I'm on my way."

Garage door grinds open at four o'clock, and everyone is antsy to start eating.

Mom walks in, says hello to everyone, and pulls the store turkey from the oven. It has a nice crust on it now, and she hands it over to Dad so he can carve it. The turkey releases the scent of rosemary as he carves, and by the end of it all, I've found the wishbone. I set it aside carefully to dry out for later use.

Mom gets out the plates and utensils, and everyone forms a line for dinner. We spend the hours until midnight playing charades, talking, and going back for more food.

The kids are instructed to leave the room, and I keep the countless cousins and my brothers busy as Mom and the aunts pull out santa gifts and stuff them in the stockings.

We're called out because "Santa came", and we tear open presents. I expected the socks, sweater, and new Converse, but then Mom tapped me on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry about last night, sweetheart," she tells me, handing me a really big box and a smaller box. I look at her, not comprehending. She smiles.

"Open it, sweetie."

I sit down, carefully opening the present so that I don't tear the paper. Mom only stands by, watching serenely after all the Christmas chaos.

I nearly drop it when I'm done unwrapping it.

How did she know that I wanted the new Macbook and iTouch? I can only stare, mouth agape, as she laughs and gives me a hug.

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

I put both gifts down carefully, and look at her. "Thanks, Mom," I choke out.

I then reach into the pocket of my sweater, pulling out the box I wrapped in secret. I hand it to her, and she looks at me questionably.

"Open it," I tell her.

She opens it the same way I opened her presents: carefully, so we can save the paper. She opens the lid, and pulls out the tiny oval locket I had saved money for all year. She looks at me, tears in her eyes, as I open it and show her the picture of me, Dad, and the boys I put inside.

I hug her tightly. "Merry Christmas, Mommy."

This year, Christmas for my family was a blessing.

((Just a little Christmas story I wrote for my mother. She's very much the inspiration for the mother in this story, and as much as she irritates the hell out of me through the year, in the end I love my mom.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!))