I was obsessed with getting the perfect holiday family photo. My youngest made me realize there's beauty in imperfection.

• As a mom, I spent so much time and energy planning outfits and family photos.
• One year, everything seemed to be going well with my three kids for their photos with Santa.

The holiday season ushers in cooler temperatures, shorter days, and a sharp rise in stress. As a parent, I love to make things harder on myself, especially when it comes to showcasing family perfection. For me, that rested squarely on the Santa picture.

I'm a few years removed from those days now, but looking back, I spent a ridiculous amount of time and energy planning outfits, staking out various Santa choices to find the best-looking one, and bribing my kids into compliance.

Every holiday season, my quest to memorialize the best version of my kids brought out the worst version of me — until the fateful year when my youngest shot that all to hell.

My youngest made me realize how ridiculous it all was

Maddox was a month shy of turning 2 — not yet in the official "terrible" category but definitely off to an early start. He was active, fearless, and obstinate. If Maddox didn't like something or someone, everyone within a 5-mile radius knew it because the kid had lungs.

Standing in the Santa line that year, I felt really good about things. All three kids were excited and engaged. Maddox sat strapped in his stroller, pointing and clapping and giggling each time he got a glimpse of Santa. As each wind of that infinite line brought us closer to the front, my confidence swelled.

When it was our turn, I placed a very excited Maddox on a very sun-tanned Santa's knee. I backed away just as Maddox's little platinum mop-top head turned to look up at the person holding him.

That's when the wheels came off.

In a matter of milliseconds, Maddox went from a happy and willing participant to a hostage staging an escape by crippling his captors with eardrum-bursting shrieks. His face melted, the tears pouring down his plump and reddening cheeks in buckets, his new molars on full display.

I stood trapped, my feet refusing to move from the spot next to the photographer. While my "good-mother brain" should have sent me rushing to rescue my baby from the clutches of this red-suited friend, it didn't. Instead, as I watched the scene unfolding in front of me, Maddox wide-mouthed and screaming from a smiling Santa's lap, all I could do was laugh. The more he cried, the louder I howled.

He couldn't stop, and neither could I, our reactions blaring through the mall in opposition to one another.

I now believe in imperfection

And so it came to be that my youngest broke me of my obsession over getting perfect pictures. It ushered in a new version of me, one who believes imperfect pictures are the best kind. We don't do retakes, even for school pictures. Whatever comes home is what I keep. Mismatched clothes, unruly hair, scraped chins — I love every single one.

From the half-closed eyes to the wide-open mouths, these pictures tell the tale of who my kids were at any given moment in their lives. And with time passing at a startling pace, these pictures of imperfection mark the years in indelible ink on my heart.

We display Maddox's Santa picture on our mantel year-round, a reminder that sometimes the most imperfect moments in life turn out to be the ones we never want to forget.