Growing up, my family’s Christmases were very low-key affairs. As a young child, we had the tradition of me hiding in my bedroom on Christmas morning while “Santa” made his stealthy present delivery under the tree. I never saw Santa, but I knew he’d been there because a bell would ring, followed by the sudden appearance of gifts. One year, however, “Santa” obviously could not find the bell and improvised with a fork and a glass. This worked brilliantly—until it didn’t. The festive tinkle tinkle tinkle turned into a dull thud, followed by some rather un-Santa-like swearing. Turns out Dad had accidently smashed the glass and cut his hand. That was the Christmas I discovered the truth: Santa didn’t exist. The whole family piled into the station wagon and off we went to get Dad some stitches.

Then there was the Christmas when our family was driving up from Florida to get together for the holiday. For the whole 26 hour drive up to RI, (my dad drove slowly) he had me trying to guess my Christmas present, which he said began with the letter P. Pajamas, perfume, puzzle, purse, plush toy, poster, picture frame, paint-by-numbers kit, pillow, potted plant, pinball machine, personalized jewelry, playing cards, pedometer, pogo stick, punching bag. pottery kit, poetry book, pet portrait (of my hamster,) pickles, personalized stationery, pen set for calligraphy, pop-up book, popcorn seasoning set, park pass to Rocky Point, pop-up tent, ping pong paddle, pom-pom maker, pencil sharpener shaped like a nose, pizza hat, or personalized toilet paper. It was a long ride up! Alas, I could not guess and was totally surprised when my gift turned out to be a phonograph! (My first and only record was by the Cowsills from Newport, “The Rain, the Park and Other Things.)

In my family, Christmas dinner always meant baked stuffed shrimp, twice-baked potatoes, and the infamous green bean casserole, a culinary tradition Hubby and I have lovingly carried on. He is awesome in the kitchen but prefers to cook when the house is empty. So, we started a new tradition: the kids and I would escape and head to the movies. While he worked his magic at home, we were busy laughing ourselves silly at the latest comedy and devouring theater popcorn slathered in fake butter. (My kids would often sit far away from me as my raucous laughter would embarrass them.) I have such happy memories of most of our Christmases as a family.

I learned my lesson that first Christmas with Dinora, adopted from Guatemala. At just 1 year old, she was already a force to be reckoned with. When I dressed her in an adorable red velvet dress and topped it off with a bow in her hair, she made her feelings crystal clear: the bow was yanked off and flung like a Frisbee, and she tugged unsuccessfully to get that dress off. When her attempts to free herself failed, she retreated behind the couch, sulking. She did not want her Christmas presents, nor to eat Christmas dinner. She just sat there, stewing in protest against the fashion injustice radiating from her tiny frame. Such set the tone for her entire upbringing.

One Christmas, when Dinora was 5, I made a rookie mistake: I forgot to put an adorable mermaid bedspread under the tree. So, while the family was enjoying breakfast, I stealthily snuck it under her bed. Then, feigning complete innocence, I walked past her room and casually called her over to “discover” the surprise. I proudly pulled it out, raving about how cute it was. Dinora took one look at it and then burst into hysterical, inconsolable tears. Apparently, she was horrified at the idea that Santa had come into her bedroom while she was asleep. Santa had violated her privacy! He had entered her ROOM! I was stunned by her reaction and, trying to defuse the situation, I made the fatal mistake of saying, “Actually, there’s no Santa, I put it there.” She paused for a second, then burst into another round of tears. There was no Santa?! How could that be??

To this day, Dinora has never forgiven me for shattering the Santa illusion, claiming that I ruined her childhood.

The days of having everyone under one roof have passed. My children have created their own traditions within their own families, each reflecting the love and memories we have shared. It makes my heart happy to know that even if we are not all together in one place, the spirit of the season lives on in the ways they’ve made it their own. I can feel the presence of those I love, no matter the distance between us.