It was another wonderful, old-fashioned American family Christmas. I woke early but stayed in bed awhile relishing the memory of many Christmases shared with my husband and four children. I slipped out of bed quietly and pulled on the warm, fleecy robe, made in Taiwan, given to me the evening before by my eldest daughter - ''so you can be warm and look nice while you fix our Christmas breakfast.'' I started the imported Danish bacon cooking slowly, knowing the aroma would arouse my ever-hungry college-age son, always the last to stir on Christmas morning.
My 11-year-old, as usual, had been the last to fall asleep Christmas Eve and the first to wake up Christmas Day. She prodded, poked, and cajoled until all of us, still in night clothes and in varying degrees of wakefulness, were lounging about the Christmas tree ready to begin the exciting ritual of opening presents.
For my husband there was a sweater made in Formosa and a watch made in Switzerland. For my son there was a set of metric tools to help him keep his ancient Volkswagen running until he is out of school. For one teen-age daughter there was a woman's diving watch and a small camera, both from Japan. For the second teen-age daughter, there was a long skirt made in India, and hiking boots made in Italy. A 10-speed bike, also made in Italy, delighted the 11-year-old. It held her interest and kept her from complaining that her father and her brother were monopolizing ''her'' new electric race car set, imported from Japan.
After unplugging the Christmas tree lights, made in South Korea, we climbed into our Japanese economy car and drove to dinner at a friend's home. I entertained a weak suspicion that the gas that got us there was refined from Arab oil. We ended our traditional American family Christmas by watching television together on our good, old, dependable RCA color television.
During a commercial my husband commented sleepily, ''Did you know that some parts in an RCA TV are made in Japan?''