For years, when my children were younger, I tried to create the perfect Christmas.

Matching outfits. A formal Christmas portrait every year, one that would hang on our walls and become the family Christmas card. With five children, I had quite a few people to convince to cooperate with my vision.

Then one year, I let them wear whatever they wanted.

My oldest wore a bandana and went barefoot.

And you know what? I love that picture.

When I look at it now, I remember who my children were then. Their personalities, their likes and dislikes, their own little ideas about how they wanted to look. I’m glad I let those things have a place in our Christmas picture.

It took me a few years to appreciate that.

There was the Christmas when everyone had the stomach virus, and the year my little daughter spotted her dollhouse from the stairs, yelled “Christmas!” and promptly fell down the last few steps. There were pictures on Santa’s lap with someone crying when I’d been hoping for smiles and giggles.

I certainly wasn’t wishing for stomach viruses or tumbles, but all these years later, those moments are part of the Christmas stories I still tell. I can picture the excitement, hear the voices, and remember what it felt like to have all five children little and home.

I spent so much time trying to get everything just right. Now, I’m grateful for the pictures that caught things as they were, even the tears and occasional bare feet in our pictures.

My children are grown, and I can’t gather those younger versions of them around the tree again, but I have those photographs and those stories, and every December, they bring a little of that wonderful commotion back to me.

If you’re trying to get everyone dressed, smiling, and looking in the same direction this Christmas, take the picture anyway.

Someday, you will love every imperfect bit of it.

Wishing you love and light,

~Anne Dennish~