I am the last of eight children. I've been called the "Vatican Roulette" baby. That's code for "rhythm method failure." But as I grew, the whole family eventually became attached to me, or at least they realized I was there to stay. I do think I must have grown on them all a little, as I went from being a "mistake" to an "accident" and, finally — praise God — to a "surprise."

You see, by the time I was born, my oldest sister was married with four of her own children. In fact, my mother and she were pregnant together. My sister carried her fourth; my mom, her eighth. My mother had just been through four boys in a row, the youngest being seven. She was pooped, and she thought she was done. However, accepting yet another new life into her body, the one thing she prayed for was that I be a girl. Prayer answered. My parents named me Mary, consecrated me to the Blessed Virgin, and the seasons of life continued.

Speaking of seasons, my mother always made the Yuletide a special time. There was never very much money to be had, but I don't think too many of us realized it. In our home, Christmas meant celebrating the Lord's birth. And celebrate we did! We sang and danced, and we weren't quiet about it (We weren't very good at it either). We drank and ate, and we weren't shy about it. But we were good at it! We didn't get our fine, full figures by accident.

        Yesiree! Christmas meant enormous containers of homemade goodies like fresh, yeasty rolls; my mom's famous sticky chicken; her more-famous-than-that sour cream cookies with icing; and soft, chewy red and green popcorn balls. Christmas meant oodles - and I mean oodles - of homemade candies like peppermint patties, fudge, Rice Krispy treats (the only time of the year we got them), toffee, chocolate covered dates, caramels, coconut kisses, rock candy in a multitude of spicy flavors, and on and on and on. The list was never-ending, and the table seemed that same way, as well, to my little-girl eyes. We'd begin our high feast by noon on Christmas Eve and often go till two or three in the morning, always including a trip to Midnight Mass, which actually took place at midnight back then, although I think more than a couple of us fell at least a few minutes shy of the Communion fast. Shh! Don't tell Father Csaky, please!

Often before Midnight Mass, much to the delight of us believers, Santa would come. Now keep in mind that in order for Santa to visit our home, he had to be very tricky because, alas, we had no fireplace! So my parents would stay up to kindly let him in, while we kids (sans the married ones, Jim and Jan) were made to go upstairs to the bedroom next to the attic. There we would be instructed to sing Christmas hymns VERY loudly and to pray "Hail Mary's" just as loud. We were to keep this up until our parents gave us the all-clear. We were not to stop and try to listen for Santa, for that would spoil everything and he might not come, don't ya' know?

One memory I have of this ritual is the year my brother Butch got out of the Service. I might not have all the details right because, after all, I was only about five, but this is how I remember it: It was Christmas Eve and time for Santa to come. My sister Kay and my three other brothers (Mike, Steve, and Bob), still living at home, were willing to go along with the tradition for my sake. They were used to it. Butch, having been away from home for a few years, was more than a little reluctant and felt put out that he still had to go upstairs with me. But a "don't-you-dare-spoil-this-for-her" look from my mom and a "Butch, get up there!" from my dad was all that was needed to encourage him to do the righteous thing. Funny how that Catholic guilt works, isn't it?

Of course, I couldn't imagine why Butch would not want to go sing and pray for Santa to come, but I was happy as a clam that he was coming anyway. Well, once we got in the room, which happened to be the one I shared with my sister, he sang and prayed with the best of them. Do you know he even detected hearing Santa on the roof?  Incredible! 

"Mary, did you hear that?" he asked.

"What?" I replied.

He said, "On the house. It's Santa! Hear the knocking?"

Well, call me gullible or silly or whatever, but I know for a fact that the Christmas of 1964 (or thereabouts) Santa was on my roof helping us celebrate the birth of Christ!

And I praise God for the gift of his Son and the awesome gift who is my family, now numbering 95+! I am especially grateful for the gift of my parents, Ward and Adeline Irish, and their openness to LIFE and allowing me to come into theirs — whether by mistake, or accident, or surprise.