I drive by the houses in Seven Hills and Parma and Middleburg Heights, my daughter by my side. The lawns are festooned with inflatable yard ornaments large enough to resemble Earth-bound mini-hot-air balloons. The good man in the red suit waves or mounts a flimsy chimney. Cheery penguins in scarves and hats ride pillowy carousels with happy snowmen. Tigger and Pooh, dressed in holiday finery, trim a tree. SpongeBob and Snoopy. Scooby and Elmo.

Merry Christmas!

I smirk and shake my head, basking in the delusion that mine is a world of discreet strands of twinkling white lights. Why, the holiday season is a time for tiny wrapped packages and flutes of champagne! Salmon mousse canapés, roast beef rare with a dollop of crme fra”che infused with wasabi. (In reality, of course, my best-foot-forward appetizer is a pound of sour cream mixed with a package of powdered onion soup and a bag of Ruffles washed down with a can of Stroh's that's kept cold in the garage.)

My daughter gazes out the window at The House of a Dozen Inflatable Lawn Ornaments. I reluctantly admit that I am drawn to this collection of lighted blooms because it is, well, jolly. The residents only inflate the characters at night; during the day, the lawn is strewn with colorful puddles of flaccid nylon.

"How long you think it takes them to blow them all up?" she asks.

"I don't know and I don't care and neither should you," I say, thinking: How long does it take to puff all those mothers up?

We drive on. The opening bars of "Jingle Bell Rock" chime from the radio. I click the CD button and Tom Waits fills the frosty air. "We eschew mad consumerism," I say with satisfaction. As if to reinforce this assertion, we pass a maniacal fly-guy tube, his undulating 30-foot cylinder decked out in green and red and doing impossible flops in front of a newly opened Family Video.

"You see that, kid?" I say to my daughter as we pass. "That is the summation of all —"

My daughter cuts me off and finishes the sentence with a voice that's flatter than Dubya's Iraq exit strategy: "— that is wrong with America."

I clear my throat. "Right," I say. We turn into our development.

Next comes the great inhalation of breath only a child can achieve and the gentle clasping of hands, the nails of which are adorned with chipped winterberry sparkle nail polish. "Oh Mom," she whispers, "look!" Her shining eyes fill with wonder. One of the neighbors has erected a giant inflatable polar bear. Kids are playing before it, alternately pelting it with snowballs, then hugging the baby bear on its knee. "Why can't we have something like that?" she asks.

Enter ghost of grandma present, my mother, whose tiny form perches on my shoulder. "Must you be so impossible?" she says, fists on hips. "It's Christmas, for crying out loud!"

"Oh sure," I counter, "like you and Dad would have allowed anything like that on Lake Avenue."

"They didn't have anything like that when you were growing up," says my mother. And even in my imagination, this impenetrable argument infuriates me.

"But it's a big dumb inflatable bear!" I say, cringing at the thought of one on my lawn.

"You are just like your father," the ghost of grandma present breathes before disappearing.

The internal dialogue gives me pause. I stop the car and consider the display.

"It looks just like that stuffed one I've got at home," says my daughter, digging at the crack in my veneer. "That one you like so much."

The stuffed bear was a gift from a friend, given to me when I was pregnant. The memory of holding it and talking to my bursting belly surfaces. I blink at the equally adorable, albeit huge bear before me. I sigh. "It is sort of cute," I say.

Next up is ghost of husband at work. His figure, clad in chinos and a shirt with a name patch, straddles my other shoulder. "Christmas is for kids," he says with brown puppy-dog eyes. "She'll only be 9 once."

The bear bobs and sways in affable glory as the image of my husband gives way to ghost of Erin past. I am a bundled tot in front of a towering tree that shimmers in red and green and gold finery. "Why does our tree have to be all blue and white?" I ask my father.

"Because it's sophisticated," he says. "Because it's stylish."

The memory dissolves in the snow globe of my mind.

"Mom?" says my daughter in her quietest voice. "Can we get just one?"

Snowflakes fall and gather. The bear stares out at the first fingers of dusk. It's still early enough to make a mad dash to the Big Box Bonanza. I cross my arms and settle into the moment of indecision.

My daughter offers a final nudge as I teeter on the brink. "Could we?" she peeps. Then I snap to with a start.

"Hell no!" I bark.

eobnow@yahoo.com ¥ www.erinobrien.us