happy freaking holidays

If you ever come across the Potential Emergency Gifts for Overachieving 15 year-old Chinese Band Geeks Who May or May Not Celebrate Christmas department at Target and find it stocked with anything appropriate for a teacher to give, let me know, okay?

Having accidentally procrastinated more of my Christmas shopping than I'm willing to calculate--I had a plan (see how well that works?); mother nature had snow--tonight was the first night I spent any time at all retracing my steps in any kind of emporium, looking at things I already knew weren't right, looking long enough to forget why I was there racing the closing- time clock in the first place. If I had any energy or a few more hours before my alarm (oh for a 36 hour day), I'd go make a run for some satisfaction and the express lane, but instead I play the "what can I make with these three ingredients" game. Iron Chef has a party edition, apparently, and so does my class.

It's not my idea; I disavow it, in fact. Those that have been through it before can recite my disclaimer: "Ms. P says that it always goes wrong." But they were dead set and determined to do a Secret Santa and they finally wrestled out of me a ringing endorsement: "All right. I guess I can't stop you." The preparations have been all-consuming and infinitely detailed; if only they were getting a grade.

Proving, perhaps, that people will rise or fall to meet every expectation, all of my dire predictions have come to fruition. The secrets were revealed nearly as soon as the names were drawn in a frenzy of "What if I don't like who I got?" that led to an endless amount of gossip and name-swapping. Cold stares from the big desk: ahem. Spirit of Christmas? They have bitched about how much money is sufficient to spend, about when to have the party, about what we should eat.

"Ms. P., some people are trying to get off cheap."

"Bring what you want and don't worry about it," I reply sending subliminal messages about some people not having the money, as if 90% of the room's not on free lunch.

"Ms. P., what if someone forgets to bring something that day?"

"Well, then, in the SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS, and oh, HUMAN DECENCY," I say, as I hold the top of my head on before it blows right off, "WE. WILL. LET. THEM. EAT and NOT EVEN MENTION IT. Would you listen to yourselves for a minute? Yes, parties are expensive, and you all are going to have way too much food anyway, but being equal is not how it works or what it should be about. Now stop talking about it before I lose it entirely."

The bitterness, the recrimination, the annual rehashing of the same old fight every December--I guess it could mean we're just another dysfunctional family, or maybe there's something about teenagers who are mostly from cultures who are far more We than Me (and oh does that affect so much of what they do) angling to make sure they get something good in what must seem to be--because it is--a very material occasion: their own American Christmas.

A holiday, and a spirit, which I hope my actions model from a different point of view (if they're still being petty we'll see how well I bite my tongue). Here in the wee hours, I didn't manage to really bake, but I've got fudge cooling and chocolate-drizzled pretzels that I'll dump into a tin. Being so outnumbered, I can't afford gifts (the Target expedition was for a girl, late to the party, who missed the name-drawing; I didn't want her to be the only one with something she never wanted), but I've got new pens and mechanical pencils for all of them since they've walked away with mine. It's a bit of a joke and definitely a gesture, but as far as I can tell a lesson in appreciating gestures is exactly what they need.