Yesterday we did something that will turn out to be either brilliant or completely stupid. We put the kids in charge of the laundry.

Boy will tote the dirty clothes into the laundry room and load the washer, then the dryer, then tote the clean clothes to our bedroom (aka Laundry Central). Girl will sort and fold. Both of them will put away their clothes. That’s the theory. They’ll get an allowance for this, but I can’t tell you how much it is because we told the kids that how much money you make is supposed to be kept private.

Today is the first official day. After we gave them their assignments yesterday, they tore off in a fit of enthusiasm. Boy got a load started in the washer. Girl folded about three towels and then announced, “I’m going to take a break.”

Later that afternoon I asked if she would mind if I folded a basket of clothes to give her a head start. “Sure,” she said. “I’m still on break.”

So basically I’m expecting lots of clothes strewn across my bedroom, which won’t make it that different from usual. But I have to resist the urge to load and fold. In other words, I have to lower my standards. Which are pretty far down there to begin with.

Someday I will have a Christmas tree with matching ornaments in sophisticated, color-coordinated hues of gold and purple. There will be no popsicle sticks on this tree, no 20-year-old teddy bears, no super-glued Santas.

On this perfect tree, the ornaments will be evenly spread from top to bottom, and the chords will not obviously poke out. Also, the lights will glimmer gently and not flash off and on spasmodically, like an epileptic’s worst nightmare.

You see, I had a lot of help putting up this year’s tree. Girl helped me assemble it and hang the ornaments; Boy strung the lights. It’s a step above Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, but not much. Still, I love it in all its homemade faults.

I guess I’m not ready for my dream tree yet. Because that’s a tree I will be putting up alone.

Something is rotten in Whoville these days. Last night as we were watching “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” Boy and Girl decided to write their lists for Santa.

On Girl’s list were two items — a soccer ball that she designed in her own head (pink with Hello Kitty on it), and a flat-screen TV for her room.

Boy had about 12 things on his list. The last item was “about $200 to $300 in cash.”

Trying my best to manage their expectations, I explained that they would probably be disappointed on Christmas morning. Five year-olds do not get flat screen TVs, and Santa does not bring cash, I said, ending with, “Why can’t you just ask for toys?”

I’m tempted to just spill the beans about Santa and be done with it. Sing it with me now — “You’re a mean one, Mrs. Grinch.”

Back from vacation and relieved to see we look happy in the photos we took. Because while we were there I wasn’t too sure. All that togetherness in the car and the hotel room felt like an endurance test, or a reality TV show. “A family of four trapped in a confined space for 72 hours. See who cracks first. Will it be Mom? Look at her twitchy eye. She’s already on the edge…”

We’re not used to being within touching distance of each other for hours on end. Some of us do not touch gently. Some of us hit and slap. Some of us are not very civilized. It makes the ones of us who are supposed to be civilized become uncivilized in the time it takes to scream “STOP IT!” four times fast.

When we pulled into the driveway of our house today, Boy said, “I love this place.” I do too. It has more than one room.