It is a sacred circle, that much I’ve learned.

Julie doesn’t like a naked Christmas tree, by which she means a tree without wrapped gifts, by which she means gifts that are wrapped in paper that is preapproved and vetted and listed in the Annual of Acceptable Wrapping Paper. She swears that’s a real publication, although no one in history has ever seen it. No matter. That six-foot circle of Fraser fir shade under the Christmas tree is solely her domain.

The rest of us can defile the tree with ornaments that she may or may not love — I know Julie threw away the “vomit garland,” a long-faded chain of construction paper links that Markie and I made on my office floor one December day when she was sick and home from school. But I’ve let that go. Julie, however, remains stalwart. Beneath the lowest boughs of the Christmas tree is a space she guards like a sword-swinging Aragorn at Helm’s Deep. Try to slip a box under there that’s wrapped in paper from the grocery store and see where it gets you. Nowhere nice.

There are a lot of rules, you see.

Rule No. 1 is all-encompassing, like the One Ring to Rule Them All: Every year, there is a wrapping paper theme. Sometimes the theme is as pronounced as, say, “Candles.” Everyone knows what a candle looks like, so that’s an easy one. Other years, the theme might be more subtle. Way more subtle. As in “Forest Woodland.” Which differed substantially, as I would learn, from an earlier year’s theme, which was “Trees.” They are not the same, as anyone under the spell of Julie will agree.

illustration by Patrick Faricy

The theme might be, say, “Paper in a Certain Shade of White.” Or “Paper With Snowflakes Printed in a Way That is Barely Holographic But Not Overly Holographic Because That Would Be Tacky.” You don’t get the theme? Julie’s OK with that. This is her holiday happy place, after all. It’s only fair that she gets to make the rules. And there are a few more.

Such as: No gift bags are allowed under the tree, and it doesn’t matter how nice they are. She is not swayed by crinkly colored tissues and volcanic explosions of bows on top. No gift bags. Why, she asks, is this even a question?

Our family’s outgoing presents are wrapped in the leftover paper from the previous year’s theme. Under no circumstances do presents wrapped in last year’s paper go under this year’s tree. They are lovingly displayed in the hall closet behind the vacuum cleaner.

Presents that come into the house from outside the immediate family and beyond the sacred circle are called incomers. These are highly unlikely to fit the year’s prescribed theme as listed in the Annual of Acceptable Wrapping Paper, so you can bet your bottom dollar they’re getting booted to one of the several designated “satellite areas” for nonconforming packages. Sort of like the satellite parking areas at the airport. And we all know that nobody likes to park in the satellite areas.

It’s a lot to keep track of. Even Julie admits to that when I read her the list of rules I’ve jotted down for quick reference for family, friends, and unsuspecting colleagues.

“Can you make them sound like they’re not rules?” Julie asks as I snicker through the list. “Can you make me sound better? I like nice wrapping paper — there’s nothing wrong with that. At least I’m not a ribbon snob. Make sure people know I’m not a ribbon snob.”

• • •

What’s curious is that Julie is decidedly not a knickknacky, matchy-matchy sort of home decorator. She’s a bit of a clean freak, yes, but she likes personality and character. She doesn’t want to live in a Martha Stewart catalog. She likes photographs and cool stuff picked up in off-the-wall places during family travels. It’s OK with her that the hand-carved salmon we got from the Kwakwaka’wakw territory of Vancouver Island on our honeymoon doesn’t really fit with the florals my great-grandmother painted during her art classes at the Louvre in 1914. It all comes together. It works.

Julie even stomachs my moose antlers on the wall and pelican skulls on the windowsill. These accoutrements are at our house in Morehead City, not in our primary home in Raleigh, so I think the organizing theme for them is “What Happens When I Give Up.” But I’ll hand it to her: She gets the look, and there is a fine — and frequently indiscernible — line between perfection and “now that is downright wrong.”

Julie, of course, gets to draw the line.

But back to those wrapping themes. I think Julie’s obsession over what lies under the tree evolved as the kids grew older and the gift numbers dwindled. It may be rooted in the gradual diminution of whimsy and simple glee that marks the transition from childhood to adulthood.

As Markie and Jack became less invested in December’s near-daily buildup under the tree — and eventually moved away from home — Julie assumed more control of a space that always had a special hold on our young family. She wasn’t going to stand by while that beloved space dwindled to a few odd boxes, as if Rembrandt suddenly ran out of paint. The sacred circle under the tree would become a place of imagination and discovery for just the two of us, thanks to each year’s breathlessly awaited reveal straight from the pages of the Annual of Acceptable Wrapping Paper.

I’ll admit, then, that maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe it wasn’t order and control behind Julie’s quest for the perfect under-the-tree display, but an attempt to hold on to the quicksilver magic of the Christmas season. It’s all too brief, not unlike the fleeting years of young children underfoot.

So, this year, I’m all in with the themed wrapping paper. I’m on board with Julie’s careful crafting of a few square feet of perfect holiday cheer.

Whimsy and glee for two, please.