Christmas sweaters. You either love them or hate them.

I love them. In fact, when a waiter in a restaurant last week came to our table wearing a gaudy green sweater with a big picture of Jesus on the front and “Birthday Boy” emblazoned under it, I had to ask where he got it.

Alas, he couldn’t remember. That was definitely an original.

The subject of Christmas sweaters is a sensitive one at my house. Especially for my daughter.

It’s all because of that unfortunate Christmas sweater incident back in the early 1990s. It was my fault. I can see that now, but I couldn’t help myself. I was a harried, working mom with two kids and trying so hard to be perfect. Especially during the holidays.

It was the day of the big holiday musical at my daughter’s school. We’d been told that  ALL of the kids in the second grade should be wearing red. Christmas sweaters, if possible.

I bought my girl a bright red crew neck pullover festooned with candy canes and snowmen.

It was adorable.

I planned for her to wear a crisp white turtleneck under it.

Unfortunately, at breakfast that morning my daughter spilled hot chocolate all over the front of the white shirt. I mopped her up, dried the turtleneck with a hairdryer and assured her no one would see the chocolate stain under her cute red sweater.

Off she went, skipping for the bus, happy as a kid on the last day of school before Christmas break.

So, imagine my horror a few hours later when the lights in the auditorium dimmed, the band struck up the chords of "Jingle Bells" and the curtain rose. There was my darling daughter, standing front and center with all the other short kids in a sea of red shirts and sweaters.

She, however, was wearing a white turtleneck with a big brown bullseye on the front. No sign of her red sweater. The adorable one with the candy canes and snowmen.

My kid was smiling and singing her heart out. Me? I was slouched in my seat - clad in a tasteful Christmas cardigan, if such a thing can be said to exist - trying to avert my eyes.

It may have been my imagination, but I thought I heard tittering in the audience. Was it mothers snickering that someone had sent their child to school - on the day of the holiday show, no less - in a dirty white shirt?

I mean who didn’t know they were supposed to wear red?

“She had on a pretty Christmas sweater when she left the house this morning,” I whispered loudly to the mother next to me.

She nodded sympathetically, but I wasn’t sure she believed me.

At one point, my petite daughter and her giant stain marched up to the microphone for a little soliloquy. She delivered her lines perfectly, but all I could see were the glaring remains of her Swiss Miss.

When I located my sweater-less offspring backstage I demanded to know where her sweater was.

“I hate sweaters,” she said nonchalantly, “They itch. I took it off.”

“Your turtleneck has a big brown hot chocolate stain on the front,” I reminded her.

“No one noticed,” she shrugged.

I hope I didn’t respond. I suspect I did.

She never wore the sweater again. Or any other Christmas couture. In fact, she once told me that even the sight of red and green together makes her woozy.

It’s all my fault.

I believe I should help her overcome her Christmas sweaterphobia by finding her the perfect holiday knit confection. One she can’t resist.

If only I’d offered to buy that Birthday Boy sweater right off the waiter’s back.

I really think she would have loved it.