I love Christmas.

Actually, allow me to clarify: I love Christmas trees and Christmas lights and Christmas music. These are the sensorial constructs through which I am better able to feel and experience the beauty, joy, and wonder of the cultural fuss known as The Holidays. These sparkly baubles and glittering gewgaws make me extremely happy and I tend to leave them up far longer than I should — sometimes until well into the new year and beyond. Next to the sweet skullcaps of my babies, the smell of the tree and the glow of the lights are two of my most treasured sensory treats in life. They make me feel deeply cozy — and cozy is my goal in all things.

The presents and material trappings? Eh. Not so much. In fact — and I have said this time and time again — if I didn’t have children, I would absolutely not participate in the whole gifty aspect of the holiday. If there is anything that I want, I can jolly well go get it for myself — and I do. The thing is, if in my meanderings I spot a shiny object that I feel would be perfect for someone I love, I procure that object to present to them — but I patently assert that it shouldn’t matter if it’s June or December when I do it. As a matter of fact, in my opinion, it’s even better when it’s not. It’s more singular. More organic. More real.

That being said, I do have babies — who, despite my ridiculous and self-delusional protestations to the contrary — are not really babies anymore. The way this shift translates to Christmas is thus: Goodbye Little Tykes, Hello Big Tyket Items, i.e., Ipods, Nintendo Wii’s, Dell Computers, T-Mobile Sidekicks, UCLA sweatshirts, sewing notions, art supplies, chocolate brown Ugg boots, red leather 80’s boots, assorted and sundry video games and books, gift certificates to Urban Outfitters and MAC cosmetics, and Colonic Irrigations (I swear to christ that was on a Christmas list that was handed to me this year. Los Angeles, we have arrived!)

They, of course, will not be receiving all of the above — they have simply, in their quest for a more perfect teenaged world, requested it. But I do try my best to make dreams come true.

This year my coziness has been thwarted by the fact that my three babies are visiting their father and his family up in Fresno — so Christmas hasn’t even happened around here yet. I wrapped presents until well after midnight last night whilst watching the precious cache of Rick Steves travel shows I have backlogged on tivo. I basked in the glow of the lights on the tree and inhaled deeply the heady aroma of its greenery — but found that without the bounding presence of the babies, it was all for naught. I miss them terribly and am left to wonder what on earth I am going to do when they are all grown and have set off on their own lives. Even now that they are all teens and have busy schedules and agendas all their own, I still require their feel and smell in a very real way — I still cannot let them pass without reaching out and sniffing a skullcap or squeezing a buttcheek or belly. I am such a creature when it comes to my children, that I can’t imagine that tactile, maternal part of my life ever being completely over and done. In a physical sense, as they need me less, I seem to need them more.

I sometimes wake in the middle of the night, crying inconsolably that I miss them. My husband, in bed next to me, comforts me and tells me not to worry, that they are all safe and sleeping in their beds, dreaming of MySpace and Mickey Avalon and the Yankees winning the World Series. But he doesn’t understand; weeping, I explain to him it’s not the lush and lanky people slumbering peacefully in their rooms that I miss: it’s the wee and succulent people they used to be. I miss my babies, I tell him. It all went by too fast. He holds me patiently while I cry myself back to sleep, my heart aching because I can’t find my babies. I don’t know where they are. In my dreams, I search until the ends of the earth for them. They are gone.

When they were small, if I asked one of the girls to go into the kitchen at night to put something in the sink or deposit something in the trash for me because I was nursing their little brother, they would protest, say they were scared and couldn’t do it without me beside them. Out of necessity, I developed a simple solution: As they made their way into the big, dark room, with each tentative step of a chubby little foot, I would watch them and say aloud over and over again until they returned, “I am watching you. I am seeing you. Nothing can touch you when my eyes are watching you.” — and they felt safe…and invincible…and I kept my promise: nothing scary ever did touch them.

Far too soon, my watchful eyes will follow them all out into the big, dark world — where hopefully they will feel safe and invincible…and nothing scary will ever touch them.

When my children ask me what I want for Christmas, I tell them that that is my wish — for myself and for all mothers everywhere.