When I was growing up, Christmas in our family was a huge deal. Before hitting holiday sales (with the precision that Black Friday in the ’90s required), my mom would break out the beloved box of Christmas movies for us to binge-watch. The weeks that followed were filled with festive crafts and endless baking, set to the soundtrack of carols sung by Amy Grant, Reba McEntire, and Celine Dion. The memories instilled in me an excessive love for the season.

As a parent, I wanted my kids’ holidays to be just as magical. But as more traditions piled on, it started to feel a lot less merry. I found myself wondering which of us cherished the long line for photos with Santa, who terrified my eldest daughter (whom I’d wrangled into a dress she hated). I gleefully filled our calendar with events, on

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