By Maria Lockard 
To all the non-festive moms out there: I see you.
It’s hard to find you among a sea of holiday sweaters and jingle bells. The Christmas music is blaring, the stores cluttered with prop presents and fake snow. We may be quiet, but we are here, and we’re not alone.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy Christmas. It’s just that I don’t have any spare energy to devote to it. Hearing other moms debate about decorations and cookies seems foreign when, for me, this season has always been about simply getting through.
The holidays can be draining. They exacerbate loneliness and financial stress. They put a daunting spotlight on perfection. They fill our already packed calendars with an impossible number of obligations. My own relationship with Christmas was marred by chronic depression; I used to latch onto the holiday season’s promise of joy, only to be left in tears when it still managed to elude me. Over the years, my heart bristled at the expectation that we pause all sorrow during the final, most hectic, darkest months of the year.
Now, as a mom, life is hard in a whole new way. And the truth is the hard parts get even harder around Christmas. Home décor is not my strong suit, and it’s tough to wrap my head around creating a cohesive holiday aesthetic that lives in a box 10 months out of the year. Juggling schedules is overwhelming on a good day, and adding in visits to Santa and hunting down gifts can send me over the edge. The anxiety of grocery shopping becomes even more staggering with the burden of planning grandiose holiday meals.
But while I may have some strong feelings about the holidays, my desire to make my children happy is even stronger. I am blessed with two sweet, vivacious daughters who have asked me to play “Jingle Bells” in the car every morning for the past 14 months. The Christmas pajamas from last year, which I hesitated to buy? They’ve been in rotation ever since, growing tighter as the months passed.
My girls have waited all year for Christmas. And I’ve come to see my indifference as a gift; it allows me to cater to my kids’ whims without the added baggage of my own expectations.
So during these hectic months, I lean into the ample opportunities to make them happy. Are they thrilled at the idea of visiting Santa or going to a light show? Great. Are they overtired and going to suffer through the experience? Forget it. My ambivalence allows me to remove the pressure of the season and focus solely on what will bring my girls the most joy.
Becoming a parent allowed me to redefine Christmas on my own terms. I’ve learned that children can create their own magic, and my only job is to allow it to flourish.
Personally, the power of community is what gets me through. My kids take in Christmas decorations on walks around the neighborhood, never noticing that our own house remains bare. I happily bring them to holiday programs at the library or moms’ groups, where I can sit back and let others take the lead. While I feel guilty about outsourcing the joy—and self-conscious about my lack of holiday attire—I know my limits, and I know I’m not capable of orchestrating the festivity they deserve.
We deserve to have reasons to celebrate. My children allowed me to see that something as simple as pajamas can have infinite magic when linked to a special memory. And maybe that carries a lesson for me too. Happiness isn’t confined to a certain time of the year or societal pressure. It’s seeing each moment for its full potential, and that can look different to all of us.
I’m not a bad mom because I abstain from Elf on the Shelf. I may never have a Hallmark movie Christmas, and truthfully, I have no desire to. If a little Christmas magic feeds the unfettered joy of my children and creates cherished memories, I’m all for it. But nobody else can dictate what that looks like besides my family and me, which is the most priceless gift of all.
by Kathryn Bartling 
