About 14 years ago, I stumbled upon a Christmas book tradition that sounded charming.

All I needed was 24 children’s holiday books, wrapping paper, and tape. Easy, right?

So, I bought the books, spent days during the girls’ rest time quickly wrapping each one like a deranged elf, and placed them under the tree. For 24 glorious nights, we alternated letting the girls unwrap a book before bed.

The grand finale happened on Christmas Eve when the last book was unwrapped – “The Night Before Christmas” because nothing screams originality like the most famous Christmas poem ever written.

The next year, I doubled down—literally. Another 24 books purchased because I had decided that wrapping 24 books wasn’t enough and reading two books a night was better than one. Plus, it meant each of the girls could choose and unwrap one every night. Why stop at “cute holiday tradition” when you can sprint toward “holiday overachiever”?

Fast forward: the tradition has evolved. The books are no longer wrapped (because . . . sanity), and now they live in waterproof containers like priceless artifacts.

Because 24 nights just wasn’t enough, I have added even more books to the collection, and we now start reading around Thanksgiving. On Christmas Eve, we all gather to read “The Night Before Christmas,” because traditions die hard—even when they’re exhausting.

We definitely have favorites.

• Santa Mouse (because rodents are festive)

• The Gingerbread Pirates (nothing says Christmas like edible criminals)

• Snowmen at Christmas (after all, snowmen need representation too)

These are only a few of the favorites, but each child has their own list which is much too long to post.

Was it expensive? Uh, yes!

Do I regret it? No. Although my continued need to add a few new ones each year means my bank account has never fully recovered.

But the memories? Priceless—like the Visa commercial, except with more glitter and less financial sense.