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.

Watching the sunrise over Aransas Bay and thinking about a sunrise 40 years ago over the Gulf. I stood between my parents’ folding chairs on the deck of a weathered beach house as a V of pelicans flew by like remnants of pterodactyls. I unrolled a cinnamon roll straight from the oven. Standing near them with the pink sky overhead and a warm roll on my tongue I felt a peace that comes only rarely.

I don’t spend as much time with my kids as my mom spent with me. Yesterday, the first day of our short vacation, I yelled a lot. I’m hoping for better today. Hoping to recreate for them some of the memories I have, some of that serenity and peace.