A couple of Sundays ago, my wife and I finally decided to clean out and reorganize our basement.
In about 2 1/2 hours that afternoon, we filled nine trash bags of things we didn’t want or need anymore and converted a desperately cluttered space and source of ongoing stress into a functional storage room.
Dirty, exhausted, but otherwise quite satisfied with time well spent, we walked into the house where all three of our daughters waited expectantly in the kitchen. Our middle daughter, Zayley, 15, was the group’s appointed messenger.
“Remember, you said we were putting up the Christmas tree and decorations tonight, right?”
Evidently, we weren’t done working.
Although I’d say our “decorating” is rather minimalist by most standards, the traditions we’ve built over the years surrounding “decorating night” are quite a production. Everyone has their roles.
Julia, 17, makes ginger snaps and has started her own version of wassail fest, inspired by the Main Street Columbus event of the same name. Her wassail and the cookies are quite good.
Zayley “finds the Christmas song playlist,” usually on YouTube, that we have to ensure each year isn’t entirely Kelly Clarkson (though some Kelly Clarkson is fine).
Amelia and I assemble the tree and hang the stockings, while I get the ladder and hang a rather large wreath around a deer head mounted in our living room.
Pfeiffer, 8, assembles our various nativity sets, which we only realized this year have no shepherds but all have wise men. This seems odd, especially for a biblical literalist like me.
Then all three children hang ornaments until it’s time for bed. Like most everyone else who celebrates Christmas, we have individual and family ornaments, the latter of which Zayley and Pfeiffer argue over the right to hang.
Not all the ornaments make it on the tree, but two coveted ones always do.
The Christmas pickle, which Amelia acquired before we met, is exactly what it sounds like. Because of its family origins, Julia usually hangs that one, but this year she let Pfeiffer do it.
Then there’s “Stock Child,” my personal favorite. During COVID, when I took up gardening to stay sane, Amelia took up what I can fairly call extreme crafting. Our dining room brimmed with various Dollar Tree items fashioned into something for gifts or home decoration. Some of the creations were quite involved, while others were as simple as placing a photo of one of our children into a prefab Christmas ornament.
That year, our Christmas tree exploded with the faces of our children, as well as one other child no one recognized. An ornament Amelia had not used, which still included the stock photo of some random girl, age 10 or so, made it to the tree. We all howled with laughter and left it up.
Each year since, the legend of Stock Child grows. Her place on the tree is front and center. Her name and relation to us changes each year. This year, it’s Veronica, and I believe she’s a cousin.
It’s great fun already, even as we’re in on the joke. When the girls are old enough to start bringing significant others, and later spouses, to Christmas, it could get even better.
“Who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s Felicity. She’s one of our cousins who lives in Maine.”
“Why is she on the tree?”
“Well, she lived with us one year when she was a child, but we don’t really talk about that.”
Next year:
“Who did you say that is again?”
“That’s Carol. She was our neighbor when we were growing up.”
“I thought you said it was your cousin Felicity.”
“Oh no. You must be misremembering.”
And so on.
We feel with a coordinated effort, this could confuse their spouses for years on end, and it will greatly entertain us all.
Or, we may let them in on the joke after the first year. Either way, Stock Child stays.
This year marks our blended family’s 10th Christmas together. In the beginning, both Amelia and I tried to start holiday traditions.
Some succeeded, but most didn’t garner the necessary buy-in to survive. I remember after our second or third Christmas being sad that nothing we could call “our thing” had really taken hold.
Over time, most of our traditions started organically based on the kids’ interests or pure accident. Our children identify with and look forward to them all. And even if it means bearing up after a day of basement cleaning, Amelia and I are happy to participate.
Zack Plair is the managing editor for The Dispatch.
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