Bring on the woodsy aroma of the evergreen tree (the giant phallus to swirl with an excess of balls)! Send up sweet smells from the kitchen for the necessary ying! Press "play" on the festive CD (no one's gonna listen to that thing afterward)! It's not just you donning the ooh-la-la apparel; it's the whole house. Consider the act of decorating for Christmas an extended season of foreplay.

You're a mother, after all. All this anticipation and readying is your job. You're supposed to like it, you know? It would be unfeminine not to. In fact, the Christmas act can turn you on in a rapid-heart beat kind of way. Beyond your will and good sense, you find yourself caring, ardently, about how the exterior lights are arranged. Their final design fills you with a primal sense of rightness. But you know your job is also to please the whole freakin' family this season and the sheer magnitude of the job makes you want to beat it to the nearest synagogue, your family's wish lists buried deep at the bottom of your purse.

You ache to be alone in that synagogue. Not that being there will do you a bit of good because like it or not, Christmas Eve will arrive—the penultimate yuletide ejaculation. You're egg-nogged on by the red and white guy (not attractive, not your type whatsoever, but your needs aren't what matters), the guy who actually takes the credit for all your evenings in lineups at extended hours of Toys R Us. Because even though you sense the impending, annual disappointment, you can't help it. You're excited. The house is clean for once; your fireplace has lingerie dripping all over it, the lights are glowing toasty warm.

And then, Christmas morning. Too early—you're not even awake for Christ's sake, and the family has dragged you downstairs to join their throng of adoration 'round the tree, which now, after days of preparation (yours)—decorating to enlarge and intensify (your instruction and leadership also) and daily watering to keep it turgid—finally, the thing erupts. The wrapping paper is clawed away, the boxes recklessly sprung apart, and the stuff that gave the tree its true support and worth, spews forth. Not that anyone's counting, but after prolonged weeks of foreplay, of making pretty, smelling good, buying treats—how long does the consummation take? Twenty minutes at best?

Beyond the tumble of paper, you search faces—did he like it? Was it good for him? And your own ability to rise above visceral desire disappears because you want it too, damn it, you want the great gift that brings the peak of satisfaction. You hold the thing with your name and feel the want. You haven't rushed the act like the others—you take your time. And this time, (it's your turn now) the thing will bring you love and that special tingling special feeling. You smile (they're looking) and peel back the big one.

Hey, look! you say and tuck back a lock of hair that came undone. Thanks so much! I needed a new coffee maker; our other one is just too—stained. And they lean back because (even though you faked it) they're all pleased with themselves and can stop worrying about your reaction.

The living room is a sorry mess and the tree has already started to irritate you. It's too big, takes up too much room and you want to the thing down, with all the associated wreaths and angels and lights and stockings. You want them all down and disappeared from your living room, more than anything in the world.

Until next year.

Sarah Raymond writes and mothers in Toronto, Ontario. In 2006, she won the Niagara Branch Canadian Author's Association Competition and was shortlisted for the Surrey (B.C.) Writing For Young People Award. Her essays have also appeared in The Imperfect Parent and Fertility Ground zines.