The day I realized my mother was a conduit for Santa, I had been playing in her bedroom closet when I saw the hot pink bean bag chair I asked the Big Guy for, and it clicked. A few weeks later, it was wrapped under the tree in the separate – also hidden – paper designated for Mr. Claus’s use only (I always thought that was a nice touch). As time went on, she started taking credit for the presents, but we still exchanged notes to and from Santa, expressing gratitude. This Christmas Eve tradition continued long after I could decipher her handwriting and it’s one of the only ones that’s endured since she passed, with Ben standing in for old Saint Nick. Our other ritual? Following the fish-forward gathering at my aunt’s, she and I would come home, put on our new matching PJs, and take photos under the tree as we waited for our late-night Domino’s to arrive. (There’s only so much calamari one can consume). I try to honor her daily, but especially during her favorite holiday. So tonight, as I eat second-dinner, put out a plate of pizza for Santa, and don my now annual Anna-supplied jammies, I’ll be thinking about my mom, and everyone who has lost someone and feels it extra hard this season. Was this soliloquy just a sad excuse to post a photo of me posing like an overgrown Regency-era toddler in a scratchy sequin dress? Maybe, but it’s (kind of) tradition. Wishing you all a merry weekend and sharing thanks to the found family members who’ve helped me preserve these Christmas customs.