ArcaMax

It didn't ring a bell when he rolled down his window, but it did jingle with a light thump as I eased the car forward in traffic. There went one of my car antlers, not getting run over by a reindeer but instead by the tires of other commuters behind me.

This year, it felt like the candy cane to top a lackluster holiday prep season. I'm still behind on hanging house lights, with a new neighbor being the new Jones of the block. The tree we picked barely holds the lights; its branches droop under the weight of most of our ornaments.

It's been a slog inching toward Christmas for what seems like months since as soon as the last plastic Halloween coffin slams shut, the doorframe with mistletoe appears out of the mist, and it's a countdown to the Whamming.

More toxic than retreads of holiday music is the underlying idea that happiness can be bought and that our love for our children is measured by the number of presents under the tree. For millennials with kids, this message strikes at the heart of our most cherished hopes for the holidays. We want to give our children magic and joy, but we've also lived long enough to see the emptiness behind the glittering facade of consumerism.

Can we even opt out? The Target and Amazon toy catalogs show up in our mailbox unbidden, filled with nearly the same plastic toys I remember fevering over as a child. Each of my children snatches up a different colored marker -- yes, they are that clever -- to circle what they want.

Do they ever get those exact things? Never, even if it does give me a sign of their aging. From dolls to model clay, from big LEGOS that fill a chubbier hand to small models of jets for more nimble fingers.

For our family, opting out began not with a grand declaration but with small moments of clarity. One year, I noticed how the kids would play with a new toy for a week, maybe two, before they forgot it in favor of cardboard boxes or living room forts. I realized then that what they truly craved wasn't more stuff; it was time and attention -- to be seen, heard, and feel part of something special.

Our trip to find our tree is the tradition we have stuck to, even this year. After buying a permit online, we drive to a national forest about two hours away, squint at the maps to ensure we're not chopping down a tree near someone's house that we didn't see, and try to let magic inspire our selection.

We're getting better at listening to the magic. One year, the magic didn't whisper about the low ceiling size compared to the size of the tree. Another year, we magically forgot a lighter for the gas stove for the hot chocolate we make. Yet another year, the magic forgot the pot, and we had burgers in the closest mountain town instead.

We've grown wiser, too, about keeping the tree outside for a few days after we magically discovered ticks on our dog, and a whole string of lights flashed toward the rickety menace we had installed in our living room.

This year, the stillness of the forest caught my breath as I got out to inspect a potential tree winner. In the moment of silence, before the squawks of the kids in the car, you realize that the magic you were chasing was here all along -- in your children's laughter and the simple rituals that bring us together.

We've inherited a world that often measures worth in material terms. But as parents, we have the chance to rewrite that narrative. By prioritizing connection over consumption, we're teaching our children that the holidays and life are not about what you have but who you share it with. And that's a gift they'll carry long after the wrapping paper is gone.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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