When I was a kid, Christmas was my mother’s Super Bowl. She hand-made stockings and dragged home the tallest tree in the lot. She baked enough cookies to supply a small army and decorated the house like she was gunning for Martha Stewart’s job. The woman had a holiday spreadsheet in her soul. She pulled it off year after year, with my dad cheering from the sidelines and the three of us kids trailing behind him, hopefully tangled in fairy lights like festive hostages.

But one December, everything fell apart.

I was a moody teenager, so the details are fuzzy, but the retelling goes like this: too many kids, too many commitments, too much work. Christmas just … got away from her that year. No decorations. No tree. Minimal gifts. I remember her in the kitchen, trying not to cry, while we were too busy fighting over who got the last candy cane to notice the supposed collapse of Christmas.

That night, after my mom went to bed, my brother and I decided to take matters into our own hands. We lived in New Hampshire, surrounded by woods, and it was the kind of winter where the snow crunches under your boots and your nose hairs freeze instantly. We grabbed a torch and a dull saw and ventured into the snowy front yard. Two unsupervised teenagers armed with sharp objects and blind optimism: what could possibly go wrong?

We found the saddest, spindliest pine you’ve ever seen. The kind of tree you’d pass over even if it were free on the side of the road. We cut it down, carried it inside and threw some ornaments on it. We raided the Christmas boxes from the basement – half the lights didn’t work, and the tinsel smelled vaguely like dog pee – but by dawn, the house looked like Christmas had exploded in the living room. Mission accomplished.

It wasn’t beautiful, but it was ours. And when Mom saw it the next morning, she cried again. This time, happy tears. Without realising it, we’d started a new tradition: forget the perfect tree, we’ll take the worst one on the lot. The uglier, the better.

I love Christmas just as much as my mom did. It’s important that I create memories my children will cherish forever, just like I had. But I’ve lowered the bar drastically.

From then on, decorating became our job. We cut, strung, taped and glittered. We used tinsel like rare currency, tossing it everywhere until the house looked like a disco ball had exploded. My mom let go of her vision of holiday perfection, and we learned that Christmas wasn’t about what she could make for us, it was about what we could create together. The chaos was half the charm.

Fast-forward to my own life as a father of twins. Those lessons have seeped into my parenting veins like eggnog through a festive IV drip. I love Christmas just as much as my mom did. It’s important that I create memories my children will cherish forever, just like I had. But I’ve lowered the bar drastically. My new Christmas motto is, “Santa doesn’t do stress.” If it causes Santa (me) too much hassle, it’s out the damn door with the half-eaten reindeer carrots and the Pinterest guilt.

Take presents, for example. Instagram will tell you every gift should be hand-wrapped in rustic brown paper with calligraphy tags and sprigs of pine. I wrap about half the presents and the rest get shoved into a Christmas sack or rehomed in an old gift bag that may or may not read “Happy Birthday”. My kids couldn’t care less. They’re ripping into the cardboard like rabid raccoons at 5am. No one pauses to say, “Oh, Dad, the edges on this wrapping are so crisp.”

Decorations? Forget the fancy ones. My twins and I make paper snowflakes together at the kitchen table. They’re lopsided and probably a fire hazard, but I’d take them over $150 ornaments my cat will destroy any day of the week. We hang them proudly, like tiny trophies, and the house feels alive. Messy, but alive.

And don’t get me started on Elf on the Shelf. I gave it a crack two years ago. But when the overwhelm of December came down on me like a stress grenade, Elf left the shelf and found himself a new home in the garbage bin. Instead, I invented my own traditions that bring me joy: each year I buy one ridiculous surprise to place under the tree. One year, it was a gumball machine; the next it was a mini surfboard; another year, a little train set that circled the base of our tree. The kids wake up and scream with delight and I get to feel like a cool dad who pulled off a big surprise with minimal effort and maximum effect.

Here’s what I’ve realised: the magic of Christmas isn’t in the picture-perfect details we parents sweat over. Kids don’t notice the wrapping or whether the tinsel is even spaced. They notice us. They soak up our energy, our stress, our calm. They remember the beautiful chaos of it all. The laughter, the off-key singalong, the crappy tree and the snowflakes that look more like abstract Christmas poos.

So this year, I’ll be keeping my mother’s accidental tradition alive. I’ll be letting imperfection lead the way: messy, loud and full of love. Because sometimes the best Christmas magic comes from the bits that go completely, hilariously wrong.

Not Like Other Dads (Harper Collins) by Sean Szeps is out now; @seanszeps.

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