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The holidays are supposed to be meaningful… or at least memorable, right?

This year, I started thinking about Christmas even earlier than usual, and that's saying something because I generally start pondering it pretty early. Who can help it? I mean, we're all still shaking sand out of our swimsuits when department store aisles explode with a dazzling display of holiday frippery.

And so it begins, the annual quest for what I like to call "The Perfect Christmas." Row upon row of glossy magazines promise to help me in my quest to achieve, once and for all, the pinnacle of holiday perfection: Roast the Perfect Turkey! Best-On-The-Block Cranberry Sauce! (The block of what, I am tempted to ask.) Dazzle your notoriously hard-to-please in-laws with exceptional gifts that are exquisitely gift-wrapped with a level of precision that even General Patton would admire!

Perky, well-coiffed television hosts simply ooze good advice. I can sit on the sofa for hours, nodding in agreement as segment after segment shows me how to bake the best-ever sugar cookies using a convenient mix, and how to shop for non-toxic, eco-friendly, socially responsible toys that my children will love just as much as an overpriced box of plastic. I've lapped it all up, each year spending money I don't have and working late into the night to bake just one more batch of cookies for the class party. I've spent hours poring over catalogues and websites, and trolling the malls looking for just the right gift that would make my family experience a more memorable, meaningful event.

I know my dear mother used to buy into the craziness just as much as I did. Christmas time used to be so stressful for her when I was growing up that a trip to Outpatients on Christmas Eve for her migraine was as much a part of the holiday routine as opening our stockings.

I suspect there was more than one year she did without things for herself just to give us the over-the-top yuletide fantasy we came to expect. I'm sure some of them came close to what you might imagine is a perfect holiday: the family sitting cozily around the tree in their flannel pyjamas, parents smiling serenely over steamy mugs of apple cider as the children ooh and ahh over expensive, well-chosen gifts; then sitting down with a table of cherished relatives as we feast on the perfectly browned Christmas turkey.

However: I don't remember them. I can't tell you what gifts I received, I don't remember who came to Christmas dinner, and I can't tell you if I sat around in a red tartan dress by a crackling fire, absently stroking the head of a somnolent golden retriever, or not. But I sure do remember the year my mother decided to put panties on the Christmas tree.

My brother and I got up that Christmas morning and stared in disbelief at the tree, covered from top to bottom in brand new day-of-the-week panties and little Stanfield's boxer briefs. It was just about the weirdest spectacle I had ever seen, and my mother never did adequately explain what prompted her to do it. I suspect that it had something to do with the red wine she only ever got into on Christmas Eve, but she claims that she "just felt like it." Sure, Mom, sure.

I'll also never forget the year that I, an excited fourth grader, opened a gift containing a bra box. I was instantly giddy with glee, only to have my pre-pubertal bra dreams dashed when I discovered that the box actually contained a Bible, not a brassiere. Well, nuts.

So, what's the point I'm trying to make here? When it comes to creating the "perfect" Christmas, we all just need to take a breath and relax a little. Down the road, your kids aren't going to remember the perfectly cooked turkeys of yesteryear; they're going to remember the year the turkey catches fire, sets off the sprinkler and ruins Uncle Jack's toupee. They're not going to remember the cashmere sweater that you spent an entire day's pay on; they're going to remember the unfortunate pair of hideous brown and gold slipper socks that Grandma got at a craft sale.

Recently, I let myself stop obsessing about perfecting the holiday experience. We hang up our outdoor lights, if we feel like it. Otherwise a nice wreath and a candelabra or two will have to do. I bake cookies and load up on candy (Robertson's barley candy is our favourite!) but only enough for the family - I no longer try to spread the diabetes to the entire neighbourhood. I still love shopping for the perfect gift, but I've come to understand that the best gift is one that touches the heart of the recipient, and doesn't necessarily bankrupt the giver. (And who cares if the wrapping looks like it was done by a three-year-old wearing oven mitts?)

I've come to believe that real happiness, at Christmas time and all year round, lies in the simplicity of being true to yourself and doing what makes you happy, and not what you think other people expect of you. The best memories happen all on their own; unplanned, unrehearsed - and sometimes unwanted.

So go ahead: Give up the craziness this year for a simpler (and perhaps sillier) holiday. Give yourself permission to buy those slice 'n bake sugar cookies, throw the tinsel on the tree in one giant ball, and then plunk yourself on the couch and watch Christmas Daddies with the kids. Then, maybe you can gather up your spare change and buy some groceries for a needy family's Christmas dinner, or shovel out an elderly neighbour's driveway. The best gift of all is a gift of yourself.

That, or a tree full of brand new Christmas skivvies.

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