For the past few years, Christmas had been losing its sparkle.
The hassles and conflicts of battling traffic and airport crowds, sleeping in close quarters on furniture not designed for sleeping or on inflatable beds that don't alway hold their flate, eating enormous meals at off-hours, and corralling insolent dogs had turned Christmas into a chore.
Since the realities of my parents' divorce sent me reeling out of a Brunswick church in a near panic-attack state on Christmas Eve 2000, halfway through the third verse of "O Come All Ye Faithful", Christmas was no longer Christmas. Instead of the pile of generosity under the tree I saw the gluttony of American excess. Instead of the opportunity to reconnect with seldom seen relatives came the rediscovery of pet peeves and minor irritations.
Two years ago, this all came to a head. We were approaching the end of a period of relative homelessness, having bivouacked from Rhode Island to Venice, California so Anna could pursue her writing while we waited for my D.C. fellowship to kick in. After, a month in a sublet beach shack, and a month of house-sitting that became another month of house-guesting, we packed up and headed East, into a situation guaranteed to end with an overstayed welcome at the peak of the holidays.
Of course, we did better. We passed a nasty head cold around with the egg nog.
Finn stole a pie, attacked our host's dog, and kept the cats holed up in the basement. He became known in family circles as "The Finn Who Stole Christmas." While partially hidden beneath a veneer of politeness, human interactions devolved to approximately the same point. And the capper came Christmas morning, when someone (who shall remain nameless) backed the car into a wall, extending our stay even further while we waited for the repair shop to open. We repaid the eternal patience of our host in the only way our dwindling bank account would allow--with a new toaster.
In 2006, though relatively stabilized in our own lives, we remained desperate to avoid any semblance of such debacles. While last year's host made stacks of toast and breathed a sigh of relief for the fate of her pies, we gave New England and the vast majority of our still-reeling relations a miss and jaunted off to Paris with our mothers. We had no concept, of course, that also along on that European vacation, was the one person who would start the process of restoring Christmas to its previous glory.
In fairness, Sam wasn't the only factor. As a family unit, we're simply in a much better place. We own a house, and I have an actual job that I love (most of the time) which pays an honest-to-God salary. Anna has continued to work steadily, and a fortuitously-timed writers' strike has given her a built-in maternity leave. And Finn has calmed to the point that he's passed his mantle of Grinch on to the next puppy in line (who also shall remain nameless).
It's no secret that kids make Christmas better.
This year, Sam didn't yet have the manic excitement of the pre-schooler waiting on Santa, but the inevitability of Christmas Future was enough. The trees and wreaths smelled better. The colorful packages were generous, not gluttonous. And our family actually enjoyed each other's presence--as far as I could tell.
So now I'm sitting here in Bath, Maine, scene of the Christmas debacle of 2005, watching the snow start to fall over the Kennebec River. Sam's lying beside me with a full belly and, for the moment at least, a contented half-smile, one Christmas in the books, many more to come.
The hassles and conflicts of battling traffic and airport crowds, sleeping in close quarters on furniture not designed for sleeping or on inflatable beds that don't alway hold their flate, eating enormous meals at off-hours, and corralling insolent dogs had turned Christmas into a chore. 
Finn stole a pie, attacked our host's dog, and kept the cats holed up in the basement. He became known in family circles as "The Finn Who Stole Christmas." While partially hidden beneath a veneer of politeness, human interactions devolved to approximately the same point. And the capper came Christmas morning, when someone (who shall remain nameless) backed the car into a wall, extending our stay even further while we waited for the repair shop to open. We repaid the eternal patience of our host in the only way our dwindling bank account would allow--with a new toaster.
This year, Sam didn't yet have the manic excitement of the pre-schooler waiting on Santa, but the inevitability of Christmas Future was enough. The trees and wreaths smelled better. The colorful packages were generous, not gluttonous. And our family actually enjoyed each other's presence--as far as I could tell.
