holiday perfection is a myth, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from creeping in when you’re the mom who can’t tell a glue gun from a hot glue disaster. For years, I let the pressure to be a Pinterest-worthy parent during the holidays eat away at my confidence, even though I thrived in high-stakes boardrooms and could organize a girls’ trip itinerary like a pro. The irony? My kids never cared about handmade ornaments or Instagrammable cookie platters. The only one judging my lack of domestic flair was me.
The Craft Station Debacle: When Hot Glue Meets Humility
There’s nothing like a fifth-grade holiday party to expose your weaknesses. Picture this: me, a grown woman with a PhD, nervously Googling “how to not burn children with glue guns” the night before volunteering. The class mom—a superhero in an apron—had orchestrated a winter wonderland of crafts that belonged in a boutique. Meanwhile, I was reassigned faster than you can say “third-degree glue burns” after fumbling with felt snowmen. It wasn’t just about the glue gun; it was a symbol of all the things I “should” excel at as a mom but didn’t. The truth? My kids were happier with store-bought cookies and a mom who showed up, even if my contribution was a lopsided cheese plate.
The Cookie Swap Chronicles: A Decade of Avoidance
For ten years, I dodged my best friend’s annual cookie exchange like it was a root canal. Not because I disliked these women—they’re my ride-or-dies—but because my peanut butter blossoms would inevitably look like they’d been sat on next to their gourmet shortbread. The unspoken competition wasn’t even real; it was entirely self-inflicted. My friends didn’t care if my cookies came in Tupperware, but I’d convinced myself that domestic mediocrity equaled maternal failure. The real kicker? These same friends begged me to plan their bachelorette parties and budget spreadsheets. I was valued for my strengths—just not the ones Hallmark movies celebrate.
Domestic Insecurity: Why Holidays Amplify the “Less-Than” Feeling
The holidays weaponize comparison. Suddenly, your neighbor’s light display belongs in a Rockefeller Center ad, your sister-in-law’s handmade stockings put your Amazon order to shame, and even the family holiday card becomes a silent referendum on your worth. As the breadwinner, I’d built a career on competence, yet December reduced me to sweating over ribbon choices. The fix? I stopped conflating love with labor. My kids didn’t need a mom who stayed up frosting cookies; they needed one who was present (and maybe bought the damn cookies). I also outsourced where it counted: my husband, a culinary wizard, handled the feasts, while I stuck to what I did best—making sure everyone had a full glass of wine and a laugh.
The Liberation of Ziploc Bags and Store-Bought Cheese
This year, I RSVP’d “yes” to the cookie swap with a new mantra: “Done is better than perfect.” My cookies might be basic, but they’re made without tears (a win). I’ll proudly plop them into Ziplocs because my value isn’t tied to cellophane-wrapped perfection. Same goes for holiday cards: we switched to Valentine’s Day, bypassing the December chaos entirely. And that cheese plate I bring to parties? It’s from the gourmet section, arranged with zero effort, and devoured every time. The lesson? Play to your strengths. If you’re the spreadsheet queen, own it. If your idea of decorating is untangling last year’s lights, so be it. The holidays aren’t a report card on your worth as a parent or partner.
After years of self-imposed pressure, I’ve embraced my role as the “fun mom” who prioritizes connection over crafts. My kids won’t remember if the gingerbread house collapsed, but they’ll remember us laughing while it happened. And that cookie swap? I’m walking in with my head held high—Ziplocs and all—because showing up as yourself is the only holiday tradition that really matters.
