I didn’t grow up celebrating Christmas, so when I had kids of my own, I was essentially starting from ground zero. No blueprint. No heirloom rituals passed down through generations. Just a vague idea of what “traditional” Christmas was supposed to look like – and an overachiever’s determination to recreate every bit of it.

One of those “must-do” traditions, in my mind, was the fresh-cut tree. In my head, it was idyllic: crisp winter air, rosy-cheeked kids, a picture-perfect pine chosen with great ceremony. Norman Rockwell vibes all around.

Reality? Clark Griswold would’ve felt right at home.

It was always freezing. The kids were always miserable. My husband – bless him – is a perfectionist, so every tree needed to be exactly right while I was pointing at the first one I saw like, “That one’s fine, I can’t feel my face.” And of course, we always underestimated the size. We’d shove the thing halfway into the car, needles everywhere, and drag it home like we were relocating a stubborn elk.

Then came the cutting. We didn’t own a chainsaw. We owned … a rusty old hand saw that probably couldn’t handle a stale baguette. There was grunting, swearing, muttered threats about canceling Christmas. Holiday music played cheerfully in the background, completely at odds with the chaos.

It became – strangely enough – our tradition. Loud, cold, slightly unhinged tree-hunting. Every year I would tell myself it was “magical” because that’s what traditions are supposed to be.

And then one year, I just snapped. I was done. Over it. Ready to abandon the entire lumberjack-themed holiday bonding experience. My husband had been campaigning for a fake tree for years, and I had been the roadblock … so yes, the chaos was absolutely my fault.

But that year, I said, “Fine. Let’s get the fake tree.”

We drove to Costco, bought the thing, set it up in five minutes flat. No frostbite. No wrestling a small forest into the car. No tool-related near-injuries. Just … peace. And lights. And instant Christmas.

I stood there staring at that perfectly shaped, pre-lit wonder and thought, Why on earth did I wait this long? And I’ll admit – it stung to realize he’d been right the entire time.

But here’s what I’ve learned: traditions don’t have to be perfect. They don’t even have to be old. They just need heart. They grow out of the messy, funny, chaotic moments we survive together. They become the fabric of who we are and what we pass on.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself thinking more about legacy – not in a grand, dramatic sense, but in the everyday way: What memories am I leaving behind for my kids? What will they remember about me, about us, about the life we built together?

I hope they remember warmth. Kindness. Laughter. Maybe a little chaos, because that’s real life. I hope they remember that I didn’t always get it right, but I always tried.

Traditions can feel annoying in the moment. They can feel like too much work, or like you’re forcing something that isn’t quite landing. But years from now, what will remain are the stories – some sweet, some ridiculous, some we laugh about because they were disasters – and that becomes the legacy.

So this holiday season, especially when time is tight or tempers are short, remember: you’re not just decorating or cooking or organizing. You’re making memories. You’re shaping how your family will remember you and the life you shared.

Make them good. Make them warm. And whenever possible, sprinkle everything with generosity, kindness, and love.

(And if a fake tree makes that easier? Trust me – let it.)

Kim Van Meter is a former full-time reporter for The Oakdale Leader, The Escalon Times and The Riverbank News; she continues to provide a monthly column. She can be reached at kvanmeter@oakdaleleader.com.