I had a visit from the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future this year—but unlike Scrooge’s rattling guys, my spirits crept in on the first night of Hanukkah. They told me I’d been whining about my unrequited crush on Santa for too many years. They told me it wasn’t him, but me. Yes, he’d morphed into my unavailable man. Sure, sure, I felt left out. Okay, but enough, they said. Get over it.

There are many (maybe most) Jewish people who grow up warm and secure in their faith, those for whom the eight days of Hanukah don’t have to compete with Christmas: Jewish nurses and firefighters who take Christmas Eve shifts to ensure that their Christian brethren are home for the holidays. These are the lucky Jews with traditions of Chinese food and a movie on Christmas.

I wasn’t one of them.

I grew up with my nose pressed right up to the glass.  Like any other bird, blind to the barrier between the glowing scene inside and me, I banged and banged until my nose almost broke.

There were no Hanukkah traditions in my house. (I get teary and jealous when I hear Adam Sandler sing his song.) I longed for the Rockefeller Center sparkles of Christmas. My sister and I even hung stockings on year. (What were we thinking? That the keys to the kingdom lay in our old limp socks?) Mom was out on a date; we stayed up as late as possible, until, exhausted, we went to bed giddy with the prospect of what would be spilling out the tops of those socks. We didn’t know what Christmas stockings were supposed to hold, but we knew it must be pretty darn special for the entire world to talk about it—Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas,

(I’m sure my poor mother either didn’t notice the socks, or cursed Jill and I for leaving our clothes all over the house.)

As a teen, I went out with a similarly disposed Jewish friend and bought a pathetic Charlie Brown tree onChristmas Eve and smuggled it up to her room, decorating it with God knows what. Long dangling hippy earrings? Her mother was not happy. Other years I spent a Christmas with my best friend’s family, trying to be as adorably Christian as possible so they’d invite me back. Finally, I left home and gave up the Christmas ghost for a few blessed too-hip-for-holidays years.

Then I became a mother. Christmas reared its head. I was determined that my children would have a big old piece of the American pie. Why shouldn’t Santa love us? We lived with a non-Jewish couple in a rambling Victorian House and I fell into Christmas as though I were Jesus’ sister. Religion played no role for any of us: it was simply an orgy of food, presents, lights, good will, and Christmas stockings so full we needed overflow bags. However, there was always a fly in my Christmas pie. Friends, who hadn’t stepped in a church since they were baptized, exclaimed as though I were crashing their personal gates of heaven: “you celebrate Christmas?”

The kids got older. Christmas became firmly entrenched, including building up our own holiday family heirlooms (most straight from the Crate & Barrel collection.) Still, I felt as though I were crashing Jesus’ birthday party. At a certain point I began to get that Barbra Streisand in “The Way We Were” feeling with Santa as the goyishe Robert Redford I’d never truly possess. He’d hang out with me, for years even, but he’d never really make a commitment.

The kids got even older. I shrunk Christmas. A miniature rosemary tree replaced the light-crusted evergreen. Last year even that disappeared. Baking disappeared. Orgy of presents stayed, but they become Chanukah presents.  Brisket and latkes, and just to make sure we stayed ecumenical, cookies from the local Italian bakery were our Hanukkah dinner. We lit the menorah and I was grateful for a husband who actually knew how to perform the ritual.

But after our lovely Hanukkah 2011, came Christmas 2011, and I missed it. Hanukkah and Christmas weren’t interchangeable. I envy those who can turn their backs, but it seems I don’t have the will to spend the day at the movies.

It’s hard growing up in a world where something is shining on a mountain, and you think everyone in the world except you is allowed up. Was it such a sin to dip my toe into this ocean of good will? My best friend in the world, who is as agnostic-verging-on-atheist as they come, becomes Sparkle-Plenty each December.

This Chanukah we turned it upside down again.  My sister and her Italian spouse came.  For them we went mainly vegan and the latkes were a failure of unholy proportions. I forgot to tell my Italian sister-in-law (who in her enthusiasm volunteered to make them) that you had to squeeze out the water from the potatoes and the vegan recipe didn’t include the information. My Danish son-law’s good manners came in very handy. Our Jewish cultural gift for joking in the face of adversity helped. Instead of a present orgy, we calmly drew-one-name gift exchange with a ‘winter warmth’ theme. A new family tradition was borne. (And my sister-in-law vowed that next year’s latkes would be the best ever.)

But where last year we followed Hanukkah with a Christmas of pan-fried ravioli, this year we’re taking it back.

Last year I asked, “Santa baby, just between us: are we breaking up or just on break?”

Turned out, it was a break. In a week I’m going to intersperse the menorahs (three, because I just can’t learn temperance) and the glittered Stars of David with another rosemary tree, white lights and some golden idols. We’re dragging the stockings out. Christmas dinner will be brisket and kugel.

This is what the Ghost of Christmas past told me: my family has grown to include many cultures, many beliefs, and many traditions. The Ghost of Christmas Present told me to get over myself. And the Ghost of Christmas Future said celebrating peace on earth is always splendid, and sparkles are just what my December needs.

Welcome back, Santa. I’ve got some macaroons waiting.