January 4, 2023

We didn’t see Santa Claus this year. It started as something that I had planned for a future date, but ended up being something that just never seemed important enough to make the effort to do.

We made cookies, wrapped presents, watched movies, went ice skating, saw extended family, and spent time together as a family, but we never got to Santa. I felt bad about it. I thought about it a lot in the days leading up to Christmas and daily after Christmas for over a week. I wondered if anybody noticed or missed it. But they hadn’t. The only person that even seemed to care was me. It made me wonder about the pressure I put on myself around other things too. I have a sense of dread around the holidays, that if I don’t achieve it all, then I really achieved nothing.

I had a feeling that accomplishing the list of items that I am supposed to do for my kids, for my family, for myself, measured my worth. My need to make the most out of my time and the experience of life.  The joy I get when we have accomplished all of it. It’s simply was not true.

My kids didn’t miss it, or feel loss because of it, or think our holiday was less because they didn’t sit on the Big Man’s lap. They overlooked it. Someone brought it up and asked if they saw Santa and my son mentioned that they already talked to their elf so they didn’t need to. My daughter said she thought it was kind of weird anyway and was glad we didn’t do it. I wanted to chime in. I thought about asking them if they really missed it. I left it alone and remembered that what we did was not only enough, but it was perfect.