“What has gotten into her?” my husband asked one evening this week as we sat at the kitchen table, wrapping gifts to go under the Christmas tree.

It had been a long day for us both and yet the kids’ request that we get all the gifts wrapped this week so they could look them over for a few days, anticipating their contents, had prompted us to gather up the tape and the paper and the bows. And yet we were tired. We had both worked a full day, then carpooled the kids here and there most of the evening. We had addressed a few Christmas cards. Returned some phone calls. Fixed dinner.

Sneaking away for a late-night latte and some private conversation sounded wonderful, yet a promise is a promise. I heated up some water and measured freshly ground coffee into our French press coffee maker while Matt herded the kids upstairs so we could pull out gifts without being seen. And at the same moment we began sipping and snipping, the newest critter in our house sprang into her act — the act we fondly call the late-night fritzies.

Even though we could not see her when her zaniness first struck, we could certainly hear what she was doing. Up the stairs she scurried, down the hall and up into our son’s covers to nibble his toes. Dan’s playful kicking then prompted her to slither out from under his covers and down the stairs once again where we wrapped.

Eventually this member of our family — who is a cousin to the weasel and answers to the name Lucy — grew bored with our wrapping and scurried over to the Christmas tree, her back humped and her mouth open.

“This ferret has gone nuts!” Matt commented before passing me the tape. And one look verified his observation. There was such rummaging it caused us both to drop what we were doing and watch her wackiness, in spite of our determination to stay on schedule.

With great gusto she dived under the tree and before we knew it ornaments were swinging and lights blinking. The little clown grabbed an orphaned bow in her mouth and zipped across the carpet before sliding onto her back to wildly kick and scoot.

Meanwhile I plowed ahead and reached for the next gift to be wrapped. And in keeping with my responsibilities as family social director, I also grabbed my date book to brief Matt on our plans for the holiday. I intended to take a day to bake a traditional assortment of cookies and make homemade tamales. I needed to change bedding in preparation for our guests, finish up the Christmas newsletter and move firewood nearer to the house for easy access. There would be an open house and worship service to attend. Christmas clothes needed to be washed and ironed. Last-minute groceries needed to be purchased.

One look on Matt’s face told me the real story: I was participating in my own Christmas fritzies. I may not have leaped onto the trunk of the Christmas tree or stashed ornaments and bows in my secret little ferret hiding place (behind the entertainment center in the family room!), but I looked and sounded about as silly. And a replay of the last 24 hours confirmed the truth. I was working myself into a frenzy again, like every year. That old stress headache was banding itself around my head. I was losing my good humor and we all know when Mamma ain’t happy, nobody’s happy.

I do not like what Christmas can do to me if I let it. I press my nose to lists and fail to slide in a Christmas CD and sing. I forget to quiet myself long enough to fully contemplate the players in the Christmas story and how the circumstances of their lives — along with the ways they chose to respond to those events — can model choices I might consider making while living my very modern life. I forget to look at Mary, who embraced an unplanned pregnancy — during her engagement, for heaven’s sake! — and committed heart and soul to the baby boy growing inside her when she learned of His mission and origin.

Yesterday we placed a moratorium on fritzing. We will choose peace, instead, this year. We will remember that Jesus came to us not as a warrior or politician or aristocrat but as a baby. Born to a young girl in a stable. Born to teach us, heal us, console us and give us life beyond what we know here.

Let us stop and wonder.

Joan Bay Klope is a freelance writer and former editor of Christian books. Contact her at jbklope@hotmail.com.