Your kids aren’t going to remember what you get them for Christmas. They’re just not.
At least I don’t.
My mother died when I was a teen, my dad when I was in my early twenties. And when I think of the holiday seasons with them, I remember them. I don’t remember their gifts.
I remember my mom stomping down snow and scattering bird seeds to feed the menagerie of winged color that knew where to find a good meal.
I remember slow evenings around rock and wood and fire.
I remember egg nog, sipped slowly, and luminaries of sand and wax.
I remember Christmas Eve walks with family, sometimes comfortable and sometimes minus twenty.
I remember their love, not their presents.
Remember, the one with the most toys does not win.
Your kids don’t need more stuff. They need you.
To put it bluntly, there will come a Christmas without you. Hopefully, it’ll come much later, but it might come sooner. That’s not a morbid thought, it’s a centering thought. Your kids will always have stuff. They will not always have you.