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"Can I just be the video guy this year?" my husband Mark said last December 25. He was referring to his role in my family's annual Nativity re-enactment. Mark's been a willing participant for a good quarter of a century and wanted a reprieve from the spotlight.

"You know the deal...everyone's in the play. Just go with it," I said.

Mark didn't respond, but instead was in hushed conversation with my European brother-in-law, Luigi, who seemed to share his sentiment. My mom saw their hesitation and caved - she allowed Mark to film the show and dubbed Luigi the narrator, who later delivered a distinguished prelude. The two of them hail from quieter Christmases and preferred their involvement not require a wardrobe change. Conversely, Dan, my remaining brother-in-law, is a trooper - an only child who enters into the fun.

My family is a creative bunch. Raised by a drama teacher and lawyer, we are a verbal brood. We revel in holiday happenings and each Christmas, my mother directs a home pageant, complete with authentic costumes and a loose script. Improvisation is encouraged. Guests often marvel at our production. This theatrical display is our norm - just another day in the life of our family - but for outsiders, it's deemed uncommon.

A usual holiday boasts a minimum of 25 relatives, a few friends and the occasional new spouse, significant other or child. We have a rolling admission policy - visitors are welcome year-round; at our Christmases, there IS room at the Inn.

Presents are exchanged up front, then the play begins between the main course and dessert. It is a palate cleanser of sorts, the sorbet of entertainment. I bring costumes and props that have been housed in my basement for a year - shepherd's garb and angel wings, among the dormant outfits. We then sardine into my mother's living room for the distribution of colorful attire - striped ponchos, sturdy staffs, earth-toned scarves, and headgear to include herdsman's hats fashioned from draped fabric and rope. I scatter stuffed animals amid the makeshift manger.

My mother appoints the roles and most graciously accept, with the exception of a few last-minute trades among the disappointed. The younger actors are told to get in costume, stand on the stairs and wait for their cues, giving more weight to their entrances. Mark, the pleased documentarian, takes backstage footage rife with hammed-up poses and faux interviews in a "VH1 Behind the Music" vein. Perfect fodder for a "best of" compilation.

"The townspeople and Wise Men were off in the distance, peacefully making their journey to meet the newborn Savior," my mother may say, in an effort to quiet off-stage chatter.

With six grandchildren - five of whom are boys - we've been flush with baby Jesuses over the years, but they're now teens and are beyond fudging it. My sons, Grant and Cameron, took rotating turns and had a good decade run. The new understudy is an American Girl doll named Madison, nabbed from my niece, who I swaddle in a timeworn Gymboree blanket.

With long brown locks, I've reprised my role as Mary several years running, and my two sisters, make for spirited angels, one who can actually sing on high. They even don their wings pre-show to get into character; they're full-on method.

My brother, with his built-in beard, is usually Joseph, and the nephews and sole niece vie for the power-trip worthy Three Kings' spots. It's all about the crowns. First we had those of the paper Burger King ilk, but they've been replaced by plush, bejeweled numbers akin to those that magically appear in old Imperial margarine commercials. The kings also sport fur-lined, velvet Lillian Vernon capes for added street cred. Last year we went Hollywood and sprung for Santa and Mrs. Claus suits, commercial characters we now incorporate at the show's close.

My mother, Gloria, is a storyteller at heart. One drama class in graduate school changed the course of her life - and in turn, that of her offspring. Still vibrant at 76, she is a dark-eyed, dark-haired Colombian who carries herself with a quiet elegance and love for play. She revels in fun. My father died 15 years back, but was always game for a repeat performance. He saluted my mother's efforts and was often head shepherd in residence.

With age, some relatives have grown a tad less enthusiastic about our production, now eagerly offering to take pictures or be stage hands, but are guilted into, at the very least, a villager's part. The grandchildren still willingly join in, but it's the first-time guests - like a cousin's girlfriend - who double as scene stealers; they approach their portrayals with refreshing fervor and have been known to use an old timey accent and dramatic gestures for added effect. They relish their newfound fame; perhaps to seek redemption for not being cast as the lead in a grade school play. Or maybe it's an experience that's escaped them altogether. Regardless, they want in. And my mother, who prompts our lines, knows how to bring out the best performance in everyone and affirms our delivery.

"Then Joseph questioned the Inn Keeper..." she'd say.

She's a director's director; everyone's a star on Christmas.

Our holiday pageants take on a different spin each year, some are marked by surprise bloopers, others by poignant moments. One year we spontaneously broke into song - a heartfelt rendition of Little Drummer Boy - when my Uncle Johnny kept a steady beat with newly unwrapped toy bongos. Our annual renditions, unique but at the same time similar, are sealed in the albums of our memories.

A teacher first, my mother has a penchant to educate with an artistic flair; the holidays take on the aura of a play-based preschool. Our productions themselves are touchstones, constants upon which we can rely. They are the very essence of home. So, too, our plays provide the comfort of routine, rooted in tradition. They are, at once, the core of our gatherings - the means by which we celebrate not only the season, but also our collective talents and the force that is our family.

After the show, I gathered costumes haphazardly strewn about and glimpsed Mark giving the dessert crowd a proud preview of his newly minted film.

- Aline Weiller

Aline Weiller is a journalist, essayist and guest blogger whose work has been published in Brain, Child: The Magazine for Thinking Mothers, Mamalode, Scary Mommy, Grown and Flown, Skirt and Your Teen, among others. She also the CEO/Founder of Wordsmith, LLC, a public relations firm based in Connecticut, where she lives with her husband and two sons.