The Privilege of a Small Christmas

Let me introduce you to the concept that a small Christmas is, instead of promoting minimalism, actually a privilege.

I’m sure you’ve heard about the concept of the “small, purposeful” Christmas: where you gift each child with four presents, something they desperately want, something they need but maybe don’t want, a special outfit, and a book.

It even has a clever little rhyme in case you forget what you’re supposed to buy:

Want. Need. Wear. Read.

The purpose of slimming down gifts from Santa is to teach kids to value, to avoid spoiling, to simplify holiday shopping, and reduce stress and junk around the house.

Fabulous idea. In my house, we do a version of that. I love it. But it sure is a privilege to be able to only get four presents from Santa each Christmas.

Excuse me, a privilege? Yep.

Sometimes, when a kid has a “big” Christmas, with presents overflowing from under the tree, it isn’t because parents are spoiling them. It isn’t because grandma and grandpa have no self-control or are overcompensating and trying to buy love. Sometimes it’s not because anyone is trying to prove anything to anyone or because kids are materialistic or whatever other reasons you hear tossed around in defense of doing a small Christmas.

My family has the privilege of doing a small Christmas because if my daughter needs a pair of snow boots, I can run to Target and pick them up on a random Monday. If we’re at Costco and she sees a doll she wants, I have the luxury of being able to add it to our shopping cart if I want to. If our youngest outgrows her jeans (which she does more quickly than her sister ever did), I can hop on Old Navy’s website and order two new pairs without having to scrimp and save and plan (I mean, I do look for a coupon first, because no one pays full price at Old Navy. But you get my point). I can tell grandma and grandpa and aunts and uncles, “Absolutely do not buy them a bunch of stuff – only a few gifts each. They have so many toys, they don’t need anything, and I don’t want a bunch of crap in the house.”

That’s what privilege looks like.

Sometimes a Christmas is big because adults plan all their yearly shopping around it, taking advantage of sales and deals. Kids are getting not just one fun new outfit, but their wardrobe for the entire year. There won’t be many trips to Kohl’s or Old Navy throughout the year. They’re not going to get one book, but six, because they’re not getting $20 to spend at the book fair in the spring. They’re getting the newest gaming system from Santa and games from Grandma and Grandpa because there was a killer deal online and they’d never be able to afford it for the kid’s birthday in June. Their stocking is so full that most of the goodies are actually next to the stocking instead of in it because it’s full of socks and undies and toothpaste and candy and lip gloss and bubble bath and other once-a-year goodies that I don’t give a second thought to when I grab them from the shelf on my weekly shopping trip.

Their parents may not be able to get them little (or big) things throughout the year, but, dangit, their kids are going to have a big, magical Christmas, with the presents bursting out from under the tree.

This year has been horribly crummy, so if a lot of presents distracts from the misery or lessens the burning sting of missing school, friends, vacations, sports, proms, or graduations, go for it, mama.

My point is this: the Christmas season is magical and full of hope. This year has sucked – no magic, very little hope. If doing four presents per kid works for your family, great. It works for ours.

But if your sister or neighbor or mom-friend gives 35 presents per kid, also great. Mind your dang business, recognize you might be coming from a place of privilege, and foster as much Christmas magic as you can for your own kids in this stupid, crazy, dumpster-fire of a year.