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, only to feel the burnout later.
And then, inspired by rom-coms, we decided to chop our own tree. Except we miscalculated the excursion, and after a day with a tired kid, hangry parents, and a nearly four-hour car ride, dozens of baby spiders descended from their nests into our home. I had wistfully recalled how much I loved getting our tree each year as a kid. Then it hit me: Our tree had always come from a gas-station parking lot across from the mall.
My mom put a lot of effort into making holidays special, but the magic was in the feeling. She shared traditions she genuinely loved in a way that filled our house with warmth and joy. That’s what made us love them, too. Trying to do too much had the opposite effect. So I started simplifying our to-do list.
First, we skipped sending holiday cards, a task that had become daunting. Then we found an adorable tree farm 15 minutes from our house with precut options. Now I limit my nostalgia for tree-chopping to the Hallmark Channel. We treasure some traditions (post-Thanksgiving movies, driving around to see lights) and let go of ones we’re not loving, along with the mental tally of all the things we “should” do.
Last year, at my kids’ request, we went for a photo with Santa. Everyone chose to dress up on their own (matching, to boot!), and then my four-year-old decided that a pair of purple snow bibs was just the thing her outfit was missing. We now have my favorite picture of all time of our four kids. Sometimes less is more, and the simpler route is the most joyful—just like my memories of that twinkling gas-station parking lot.
This article appears in the December 2025 issue of Washingtonian.
Amy leads Washingtonian Weddings and writes Style Setters for Washingtonian. Prior to joining Washingtonian in March 2016, she was the editor of Capitol File magazine in DC and before that, editor of What’s Up? Weddings in Annapolis.
