This is a story my family tells a lot. One Christmas, when she was in 7th or 8th grade, my sister decided to make a bracelet for each of her friends. She had the perfect plan—each friend would get a different color combination of a clipped, beaded piece of jewelry wire that wrapped around your wrist without needing a clasp. She waited too long to make them, however, and my mom, my dad and I all ended up around the table with her, frantically churning out what we hoped were somewhat coherent and thoughtful presents. There were mixed results (and only a little bloodshed). My dad grumbled the entire time—the wire was poking him, the beads were too tiny, his fingers too big, she should have planned better and why did the beads have to be goddamn small? When the dust finally settled, and band-aids were administered, one thing was clear: my dad’s bracelet was gorgeous. The best, even. We recreated it several times over the next few years for other friends, usually accompanied by an overly-gesticulated retelling of its origin story.

This retelling is not about the bracelets. Usually it is because I get a kick out of remembering how well my dad did compared to how annoyed he was, and how proud we were. This year, I’m caught up thinking about how my sister’s knee-jerk reaction, when tasked with giving to an entire group of people, was to make something. It just feels very true. I also want to make something for the people I love, or like, or just happen to spend structured time with every day. I want them to know that I care about them and making things is the way I know how to do that. Part of the gift is the time you put into it, regardless of what it is made of (and I’ve earned my badge in most media in pursuit of gift giving—you name it, I've glued it to something else).

So this year I wanted to give you something for you to give. And since the only reason I know how to make things is because my mom taught me, I wanted her to be involved. I think these stars are a good place to start. They are beautiful and hard to save, which is perfect, because that means we make new ones every year, and add another memory. That’s really the only permanence that counts. One year I made them using Post-it notes in my practically windowless office. This year I made one using notebook paper covered with incorrect math answers while studying for grad school. (Every year I mess up the fourth step the first time around, but I think you'll do great.) When I’m lucky, my mom and I make them together. My mom wrote and illustrated the instructions step-by-step, so you don’t even have to find them elsewhere. Unlike the bracelet, they don’t require any beads or wire or anything special, just paper, scissors and tape or staples—so while bloodshed can’t quite be ruled out, I trust you to be careful enough. Enjoy!

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