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Photo: 220 Selfmade studio (Shutterstock) Let me start by saying, I have three kids—which feels like too many. I was raised by an old-school southern housewife who chaperoned every field trip and doled out sundaes at school events (and carry with me the internalized pressure to do the same). But I have a full-time job, a husband who just had COVID while I solo parented and slept on the couch, and we’re approaching year three of a pandemic in which every close contact and mild fever puts my child in front of a shitty Chromebook he can’t log into, to “learn” (read: smash Goldfish crackers and watch Super Mario videos) for 10 days. Oh, and it’s Christmas. None of these things work together. Which is why, this holiday season, I’m feeling an extra dose of fuck it. Before I had kids, I had charming, sentimental ideas of how the holiday would be—most of which were naive and dead wrong. Because you know what I failed to realize? I’d be the one responsible for creating all the magic. (And ensuring everyone had an equal number of similarly-priced requests on their Amazon wish lists, which, by the way, don’t delete after being purchased. Bezos!) All of this is—pardon my French—a fuckton of work. For Christmas-celebrating parents of littles, December is always extra. We spend the month shopping, wrapping, activity-planning, and generally being the CEOs of Merry Manufacturing (while holding down actual jobs). The stress of holiday duties can do a number […]