Every year at Christmas, perhaps on the night we decorated our Christmas tree, but definitely on the evening of Christmas Eve, my father  treated us with cups of eggnog. At some point in the evening, after dinner, Dad would head into the kitchen to prepare the drink.

The eggnog was never homemade, always store bought, but he never served it straight out of the plastic jug. He made a point to doctor it up, making the drink special in a way that it wouldn’t have been otherwise. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he just sprinkled some nutmeg on top, but maybe there was more to it than that. You just never knew with my dad.

That first sip of the sweet, milkshake-thick drink was always a surprise and a delight. It felt indulgent and excessive, and I loved my father for that. I felt special, being allowed to share in this obviously adult ritual. Dad drank his eggnog down quickly, not pausing to savor each mouthful as I did, then wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. I remember his satisfied smile then, eyes sparkling, as he looked around the room at me, my brother, and my mom. Any strife that existed in that cozy living room — any bickering or grudges held or slights felt — were gone, entirely, for those moments we savored the eggnog.

In the many years that have passed since those first sips of the holiday treat, my memories of the taste of eggnog are bound together tightly with feelings of peacefulness and joy.

This past week has been more stressful than usual. We hosted two parties last weekend, a holiday party for my work and a sleepover party for my daughter’s ninth birthday. The parties were wonderful, and I enjoyed every bit of them. The stress leading up to the events was expected and, at least for me, a normal part of the party-planning experience.

Madeline shuffled into our bathroom this morning, her cheeks marked with creases from the imprints of her sheets, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her fists. She squinted in the bright lights of the bathroom, and then her face lit up with a smile when she saw me standing there, putting on makeup. She moved in close, wrapped her arms around me, and squeezed tight.

She woke up rather quickly after that, and the words started pouring out.

“Mommy, I went to the ballet with Erica and I loved it! And there was a mouse king but he was bad, and then I had lasagna. And Erica flat-ironed my hair and I got to slice the birthday cake Aunt Bee ordered. And Daddy let me try my new rollerblades on and he pulled me around the house twice.”

She paused momentarily to catch her breath. “And can I have a bounce house for my birthday party this weekend? Or maybe can Magic Mike come? Oh, and I took cupcakes to school yesterday, for my class, and Daddy let me keep four of them at home so we could have them for treats. And Aunt Bee is sending me some books to read for my birthday. Did they come yet?”

This is what I was greeted with this morning, and I loved every frantic minute of it.

The day after Thanksgiving was a beautiful day. We had no plans on that Friday – no errands to run, no school for the kids to attend, and no work to hurry off to. And, because of the abundance of leftovers in the fridge from the day before, there were no meals to cook.

After a lunch of turkey and dressing and green jello salad, we pulled the boxes of Christmas decorations out of storage and Sam unpacked our new artificial tree. Our old tree had two things going against it – first, the lights quit working on the bottom section two Christmases ago, and second, it was getting droopy. And while I love the smell of a fresh cut tree, my fear of the house catching fire due to spontaneous combustion of a crispy, dried out evergreen takes precedence any day. Hence, a new fake tree.

The kids and I unpacked the ornaments, and while I found high branches on which to hang the more fragile ones, Maddie and Oliver searched the lower branches for the perfect spot for each ornament they were in charge of hanging. The cats perched on a nearby chair, watching with anticipation as the sparkly objects were hung just out of reach, or so us humans thought. We took little breaks to warm our hands by the fire, because even though it was 68 outside, the house was chilly. And also because having a fire burning in the fireplace is a must when decorating the Christmas tree.