During a snowy day last winter, I handed my twin sons a pristine Lego set. They squealed as they opened it. While snowflakes fell and they sipped hot cocoa, they constructed a brand-new, miniature Lego world. It was an idyllic scene.

I must’ve seemed resourceful in that moment, ready as I was for an unexpected blizzard with a new gift. But full disclosure: I wasn’t. I was simply still extending the Christmas magic, despite the fact that the holiday had passed.

In my family, we open many of our holiday gifts twice. First, there’s the anticipated head rush of excitement and wonder on Christmas morning. Yet a second round of fun comes later, days or weeks or even months later, when we open the (now-forgotten) gifts again, this time with the intention of actually using them. 

Over time, I’ve become as proud of this secondary tradition as I am with any of the beautiful and bountiful elements of our glittering holiday. I take satisfaction in the fact that opportunities for play, activity and togetherness await my family year-round — albeit out of sight. 

For most of the year, I say “no” when my kids ask for a new toy. I think a lot about the Garfield phones. After a shipping container was lost at sea, perfectly intact Garfield phones have been found along the French coastline since the 1980s, becoming a symbol of the consequences of plastic pollution. I also think of our stuffed-to-the-brim toy chests, and I wonder where this new shiny thing will live. I think of the values I want to promote. Often, the new toy is a sparkly, updated version of something they already have. I want to raise people with the instinct to preserve, rather than to discard. 

For most of the year, I try to nurture their ability to make their own fun. They still find treasures in acorns, delight in rain puddles, and can create stories from broken crayons and blank pages of paper. They don’t need much to have more than enough. I say “no” to erect guardrails around their own ingenuity and creativity.

Yet I abandon most of this restraint during the holiday season. Because I recognise that “no” can come from a place of lack, too. I want to say “yes” when I can. And I’ve always said “yes” to Christmas morning. 

A glut of sparkling, bow-topped presents under the tree conjures magic, as well as nostalgia for my own childhood memories. I associate unwrapping gifts with laughter and rumpled pyjamas and coffee burbling in the background, with abundance. Christmas morning is a radiant challenge to scarcity culture. Before my hemisphere offers the year’s darkest, coldest months, we’re blessed to have the chance for our bellies, our hands and our hearts to feel full. 

After a few days of stumbling over gift boxes, however, I find myself ready for a fresh start. I clear the floor. I make piles. I donate old things and seek spaces for their new gifts. Each child’s internal gift hierarchy becomes immediately apparent. They tear apart their favourite items, trying to rip open boxes with their fingertips. Other presents are often ignored in the heat of the moment. 

All too soon, the scattered mounds of presents become like a browser with too many tabs open. Their clutter inhibits their joy. As soon as we’ve cleaned the room, and plucked a few chosen gifts from the rest, they’re able to singularly focus on what matters most to them at the time. 

Meanwhile, the gratification of these other gifts isn’t gone — it’s delayed. I’ve found that any gift can be made exciting again with a second introduction.

Years ago, I started hiding the forgotten gifts. I stashed them away in nooks and crannies, on basement shelves and in the back of closets. Whenever I hear the sing-song refrain of “I’m bored,” I seek out my treasure trove of holiday goodness. Because Christmas morning can be a frenetic time, I also covet the relaxation of this secondary gift-opening experience. I’m not fumbling with scissors and batteries this time. I’m not taking directives like one of Gen. Patton’s soldiers. I’m relaxed and present, open to giving my children my full attention.

I’ll always believe that no matter how plentiful the gifts under the tree and no matter how thrilling our children find their contents, the present isn’t ultimately the point. What our children want most of all is for us to play and be present with them. Admittedly, I’m not always patient enough to do so when I’m depleted from putting on the holiday. While they’re reliably giddy in the afterglow of Christmas morning, I want to savour the time to rest.

On the surface, winter’s cold, dark months offer little beyond hibernation. My family tends to turn inward then, relying on the comforts of home more during winter than any other season. Our children look to our cues for navigating the short days. They claim to want entertainment, but I think they’re seeking out the first blush of something new. They’re itching to feel lit up again, to find a spark bright enough to break up the sameness of white-outs and grey skies. They want another month’s magic. 

Without the bells and whistles of bows and ribbons attached to this gift, my children’s enthusiasm is tempered the second time around. One or two gifts will also never hold the same shriek-inducing power as a gilded mound of them. Though unwrapped and unlabelled, this belated offering delights most in its capacity to surprise, to transform an ordinary afternoon into something enchanting. Moreover, I’ve realised over time that what my children want most isn’t the gift but our exchange. They treasure the closeness of sitting side-by-side in the quiet thrall of an unexpected present, with parents who are fully engaged in the task at hand.

I can’t be the only parent overwhelmed by the pressure to produce a special holiday ― and later, drowning in the clutter and waste associated with it. I’ve found relief in this secondary gift-opening tradition for its reminder that we can create memories on our own timeline, making space for play and togetherness outside of the jam-packed holiday season. Indelible moments can exist long after we pack the twinkle lights away.

Maybe my instinct to set gifts aside isn’t a modern-day hack after all. Maybe it’s ancient instinct. In the past, people came by their blessings less reliably, ebbing and flowing between feast and famine. Abundant harvests weren’t only invitations to consume quickly but to establish a reserve of resources. Every season could be pocketed in some way. We can heed their wisdom and stash away some magic for later. In so doing, we may come to find our holidays most magical for their capacity to last.