The first sound of Christmas I truly remember isn’t jingle bells. It’s the sound of duct tape being ripped from the roll, that sharp, fibrous zzzzzz-thwip!

I was ten years old, in our small house in southern Ohio. The wind was rattling the single-pane glass of our living room window. I sat on the avocado-green shag carpet, watching my dad, Mike, in his worn-out flannel shirt, meticulously tearing strips of that iconic silver tape. He was sealing the frame of the window.

“Dad, why are you using the silver tape?” I asked. “That’s for the car.”

He paused and looked at me, his face tired from a long week at the plant, but his eyes kind. “Well, Sarah-bean,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “This old window’s got a whistle in it. Can’t have Santa catching a draft when he drops off the goods, can we?”

He went back to work, pressing the tape down with a calloused thumb. Outside, the November sky was the color of dirty slush. But inside, Dad was making sure the cold stayed out. He was protecting the magic.

I’m 45 now. I was scrolling through my phone last night, and a picture popped up. It was a family—someone I vaguely knew from college—posing in matching, cream-colored silk pajamas. They were on a horse-drawn sleigh, dusted with perfect snow. The caption read, “Making memories in Aspen! “

A familiar, acidic pang of guilt hit my stomach. My own Christmas plans felt so… small. My son, Ben, wants a new controller for his video game system. My daughter, Emily, wants a gift card to the mall. We aren’t flying to Aspen. We’re driving four hours to my husband’s parents’ place, same as every year.

Am I doing it wrong? Am I failing to give my kids the magic?

That’s when I remembered the duct tape.

We never went to Aspen. We barely went to the next county. In the early 90s, the steel plant was always “tightening its belt,” which was grown-up talk for “Dad’s overtime got cut.” Our holiday celebrations were built on a foundation of ingenuity and making-do.

One year, our Christmas tree was named “Leany.”

Dad had taken my younger sister, Leah, and me to the only tree lot in town, run by old Mr. Henderson. It was December 23rd, and the selection was grim.

“Evenin’, Mike,” Mr. Henderson grunted, pulling his collar tight. “Not much left.”

He pointed to a sad, lopsided Scotch pine in the back corner. It had a bald spot on one side big enough to park a bicycle in.

“She’s a fixer-upper,” Dad said, walking around it.

“He’s crooked,” Leah whispered, her eight-year-old face full of disappointment.

Dad knelt. “He’s not crooked, honey. He’s just… reaching for the light.” He paid Mr. Henderson five bucks, and we wrestled the tree into the bed of our rusty blue pickup truck.

Getting it to stand up in that wobbly, red-and-green metal stand was an engineering marvel that involved half a dozen cardboard shims and a quiet swear word from Dad.

“Well,” Mom said, walking in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked at the tree, tilted her head, and smiled. “He’s got character.”

Then she pulled out four boxes of silver tinsel. “Tinsel fixes everything,” she declared.

And she was right. By the time we were done, “Leany” was glorious, shimmering under the warm glow of those old-fashioned, bubbling liquid candle lights.

On paper, we didn’t have much. My Christmas dress was from a circular rack at a discount mart, the polyester so scratchy it made my neck itch. Leah wore my hand-me-down from the year before. We never saw The Nutcracker downtown. We never had catered parties with tiny sandwiches.

But I swear to you, Leah and I thought we were the richest kids on the planet.

Our currency wasn’t money. It was sensation.

I remember the smell. It was a fortress against the Ohio cold. It wasn’t a $40 candle labeled “Holiday Spice.” It was the real, earthy scent of Mom’s kitchen: peanut butter blossoms baking, the ones with the chocolate kiss pressed into the middle. The savory aroma of the holiday roast. And, always, a pot of apple cider simmering on the back burner with real cinnamon sticks. That smell was love.

I remember the sound. The hiss and crackle of the needle on Dad’s old turntable. He’d put on the Bing Crosby Christmas album, and he knew every skip. He’d hum right over them. We’d watch the Andy Williams Christmas Special on our giant console TV, the kind that was also a piece of furniture, mesmerized.

I remember the sights. The annual trip to Grandma Rose’s apartment. She was the “fancy” one. She had a breathtaking, space-age aluminum tree that she’d had since the 60s. It stood in her living room, and in front of it sat a rotating color wheel.

“Now kids, don’t touch the wheel,” she’d warn, though her eyes twinkled.

Leah and I would lie on our stomachs on her plastic-covered sofa and just watch. The tree would turn from royal blue, to emerald green, to ruby red, to glowing yellow. It was our own private light show, and it was magic.

But the peak of our wealth, the absolute height of our riches, was Christmas morning.

The rule was we couldn’t go down until Dad got his coffee. Leah and I would wake up at 5 AM, our stomachs aching with anticipation. We’d sit at the top of the creaky stairs, our feet cold on the wooden floor, whispering.

“Do you think he came?” Leah would ask, her breath fogging in the air.

“He came,” I’d say, full of certainty.

Then, finally, we’d hear the sounds from downstairs: the rattle of the coffee pot, a cough from Dad. That was the signal.

We didn’t walk. We flew.

And there they were. The presents, spilling out from under “Leany,” the tinsel-covered branches hiding the bald spots.

I’m 45 years old, and for the life of me, I cannot remember most of the gifts I received. I’m sure there was a doll. Maybe a board game. A new sweater.

What I remember—what I can feel in my bones right now—is my dad, in his worn-out brown bathrobe, sitting cross-legged on the floor, patiently reading the instructions for a new toy.

I remember my mom, standing in the kitchen doorway, holding her favorite coffee mug, not saying a word. Just watching us. Her face was soft, and her eyes were bright.

I remember the feeling. The feeling of being completely, utterly, and unconditionally safe.

I put my phone down. The picture from Aspen was gone, replaced by an ad for a blender.

In the next room, I could hear my son, Ben, talking to his friends through his gaming headset.

“Hey, Ben?” I called out.

The game sounds paused. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Want to make cookies? The ones with the kisses.”

There was a half-second of silence. “The peanut butter ones? For real?”

“For real.”

I heard the click of his controller being set down. “Okay. Yeah. I’m coming.”

The algorithm is screaming at us. It’s yelling that you’re not doing enough, that your magic isn’t magical unless it’s curated, filtered, and costs a fortune. It’s a thief, trying to steal our joy and sell us a cheap, mass-produced version of it.

Please, please don’t listen to it.

Hear me. You tired moms. You stressed-out dads. You loving grandparents.

Your kids don’t need a sleigh ride in the Rockies. They need you on the sofa, watching A Charlie Brown Christmas for the twentieth time.

They don’t need $200 matching pajamas. They need you in your old bathrobe, sitting on the floor, ready to play.

They don’t need a professionally catered meal. They need the smell of your kitchen, even if it’s just slice-and-bake cookies or a box of instant pudding.

Turn up the music. Dance with them while the spaghetti boils. Be goofy. Drive around the “good” neighborhoods to see the lights. Tell them the Story, or just tell them a story about when you were a kid.

Kids don’t need your money. They don’t need your perfection. They just need you.

They need your time. Your silly dances. Your full, undivided attention.

I promise you. I promise. I don’t remember the price tags. I don’t remember the polyester.

I remember the duct tape.
I remember the tinsel on a crooked tree.
I remember the love.

That is the only gift they will keep forever.