I was out last week, so I’m handing over this week’s newsletter to NYT Parenting staff editor Katherine Zoepf. She last wrote in this space about the unspeakable cost of parenthood.

— Jessica Grose

One December day, around the time I turned 5, my mother sat me down and gently informed me that there was no Santa Claus; she’d decided to become a Jehovah’s Witness, she explained, and we wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas anymore. I don’t recall being especially troubled by this bombshell at the time, and skipping out on holiday celebrations became my childhood norm.

But as a new parent, many Decembers later, I found myself thinking about my mom’s revelation constantly. Christmas was approaching and, though I’d imagined celebrating with my own kids, I was at a loss. I had no family traditions to fall back on. How exactly were you supposed to do Santa Claus?

I earnestly canvassed my circle of mom friends. What precisely were you supposed to tell kids about the big man in red, and when? Did Santa bring all the toys, or just the really big statement presents? I spent hours on Etsy perusing handmade ornaments. If I ordered those adorable, extortionately-priced needle-felted Christmas mice, would I feel like the kind of mother who intuitively understood how to spin a web of comfort and joy? Or would it be obvious to my kids that I was just making it all up as we went?