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and basketball socks.
    “She scores again. Aaaaaah.”
    Megan’s room is starting to look much better, although I notice that she is shoving an assortment of broken toys and outgrown clothes under her bed. I’m about to suggest that we sort through some of the debris together when a car drives by with the radio blaring.
    Grandma got run over by a reindeer …
    “It’s got to be them!”
    She runs from her bedroom, leaps down the steps, and throws open the front door. The words of the song and the car are fading down the street.
    There is no gift on the porch.
    “Phooey,” she says, but she is singing as she closes the door. When she realizes I am listening, though, her carol ends. I turnoff the radio whenever a holiday song comes on, even though I know she cherishes the melodies. Now I’m teaching her to tune out Christmas, too.
    Embarrassed at the example I am setting, I force myself to get off my butt. I might not be able to sing with my daughter right now, but I can drag a mop around the floor.
    Megan is overjoyed at my activity.
    “Christmas cleaning!” she says gleefully. “Thank you, Mom!”
    She runs upstairs, giving me a glimmer of optimism for the outcome of her cleaning efforts. When I join her later, she is perching on a throne of pillows under the window, admiring the Christmas lights on the house across the street. The display reminds both of us of the giant Christmas tree Rick built a few years ago with similar white chasers.
    “Ours covered the entire side of the house,” Megan remembers. “I helped Daddy draw up the plans.”
    On a sunny January afternoon, she had held the ladder as her dad climbed up to take down the thirteen strands of lights. When the pair came inside, red-nosed and weary, two hours later, I made them cups of hot chocolate. They were already strategizing our light display for the following year
.
    “I think we dipped chocolate chip cookies in our cocoa,” Megan says.
    Megan’s stomach growls, and I ask her about the dinner. She doesn’t tattle on her older brother. I admire her loyalty but realize that I need to give Ben more oversight and less responsibility for his siblings.
    “You didn’t eat much?”
    She shrugs.
    “Want a snack?”
    “Yeah!”
    Megan and I go into the kitchen and I search the pantry, the freezer, the fridge for something healthy. My foraged finds are limited to a bag of stale potato chips, a brown banana, and chocolate ice cream topped with frosty-white freezer burn. I need to go to the grocery, but it’s after eight p.m., and my children are hungry.
    “Who wants a hamburger,” I shout loud enough for all my kids to hear.
    Nick’s bedroom door flies open.
    Megan hollers, “Wahoo.”
    Ben makes it upstairs faster than I have seen him move in months.
    “One box of mac ’n’ cheese isn’t enough for all of us,” he says mildly, but the kids are so pumped up about the late dinner that I don’t want to ruin the mood by accusing him of neglecting his younger siblings.
    As I walk to the car, Megan shouts something at me from the doorway.
    “Don’t forget about my school party,” she hollers.
    I make the gas station my first stop. There I purchase the best-looking box of cheap chocolates on the shelf for Megan’s teacher. Though I’m not sure exactly when the party is scheduled, I want to buy the gift before I forget. I’ll have to track down some wrapping paper, but at least we already have bows, thanks to the gift givers.
    I pick up a sack of hamburgers and fries for my family, and head for home. By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m feeling pretty puffed up about my parenting skills. My kids will have asomewhat decent dinner this evening, and I’ve remembered to buy the Christmas gift for Meg’s teacher.
    “You can do this single-parenting thing,” I tell myself, and in the moment I almost believe it.

    While I am out picking up dinner for my kids, the third gift arrives. Megan, who was watching for my return, saw the car