Jesus is not the only reason for the season. The Pterodactyl reminded me of this yesterday, after I spent two hours trying to find him a dreidel, with no success. So I bought him a really cool menorah, which he loves, though he was adamant that we “not play any Hanukkah games without any dreidels.”

The Diva wailed for 30 minutes because I had not brought her any presents, but then her brother said the menorah was something for the whole family to enjoy, which I thought was very gracious and Hanukkah-like of him. Now that he’s five, he occasionally acts at least four.

“That’s right,” I told them. “The menorah can be part of our Christmas celebration.”

“No, Mom,” the Pterodactyl said, because either he’s even more politically correct than I am, or my brain had temporarily left my head and was resting comfortably in the freezer. “The menorah celebrates Hanukkah.”

I should point out here that we are not Jewish. The Pterodactyl has become slightly obsessed with Hanukkah because he’s studying it at his secular pre-school. I’m fine with that. Frankly, talking about a little bit of oil lasting eight days seems preferable to explaining why a baby had to be born in a barn only to grow up and be nailed to a cross. The Diva, even at eight, remains completely traumatized by that so we try not to discuss it. Celebrating the fact that it’s Jesus’ birthday is fine, though. That’s just plain history.

I am a recovering Catholic, but have fond memories of going to church at Christmas time because of the celebratory nature of the services. Every year, when the chorus began singing, “Joy To the World,” my dad would lean over and whisper in my ear, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! Was a good friend of mine!” I loved how happy we all were.

That, in my opinion, is the reason for the season: happy togetherness. Thank you, Jesus, for being born and all, but I’m guessing now that you’re over 2,000 years old you’re over all the birthday hullaballoo. I’m more grateful that you don’t mind us using your special day as an excuse to be merry and feel nostalgic about our nutso families for a whole month.

That’s why it baffles me that a segment of the population continues to insist that there’s a War on Christmas because people like to say Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas. To paraphrase the great Rodney King: Can’t we all just get along and spend money together to boost the economy? Isn’t that really what Hanukkah and Christmas are about? And Kwanzaa? And Eid? And Boxing Day?

I understand that Christians feel very protective about the anniversary of Christ’s birth, but I don’t get why in the world anybody would be offended by somebody saying “Happy Holidays!” instead of “Merry Christmas!,” especially when it’s the cashier at Target. It’s just an exchange of greetings, and as long as the person isn’t saying, “I’m sorry, your son broke that and now you’ll have to buy it,” I don’t really care how that person addresses me.

Having said all this, it would certainly be helpful if all the major religions would invent a myth involving fat burglars wearing snowsuits who break into houses and leave toys. It’s just a pragmatic thing. If all the adults could collaborate and come up with a common story, we wouldn’t have so many lame versions of how Santa Claus gets all this done. My lame version is one word: magic. I refuse to discuss it further.

Actually, I’m not sure it would be terrible to just blend all the religions together as well. Then there would be no confusion when Santa Claus leaves a dreidel under the Christmas tree for my son, right next to the decorative menorah and the remote-control farting machine.

That’s what I call Joy to the World.