Though my family loves celebrating the holidays at home, we discovered the joy in dining out. It allows my mom to enjoy the festivities with her 6 children.

• My mom enjoyed going out all for the holidays, including cooking meals.
• One year she asked my five siblings and me if we'd like to go out for dinner instead.

My mother used to carry the magic of the holidays like a human-sized wooden cross on her back. "Making it special" for the family meant she wouldn't experience rest for the days leading up to the new year; every day in December arrived with something to do in preparation, like an advent calendar of servitude.

Of course, my five siblings and I never appreciated the sweat and tears it took for a single parent to give us fond memories we'd cherish forever. She'd spend a fortune on gifts we'd forget about the following year and risk her life decorating the exterior of our house with Christmas lights; I anxiously watched her tiptoe on a ladder, trying to dangle wire around a corner, and pleaded with her to get down.

But nothing stressed Mom out more than making extravagant meals from scratch. Abuela lived with us as kids and typically cooked for the family, but during holidays Mom insisted on taking the reins of the apron. Part of our Latin culture was inviting all family and friends or anyone within a five-mile radius, so Mom smashed potatoes and cut carrots as if her life depended on it. I typically only saw her make cereal, but she'd suddenly know how to roast a pig for Noche Buena.

Offering to help meant being in the splash zone of her stress, so when I was younger I kept my distance.

One year, everything changed

When I was in my mid-teens, something incredible happened. We were planning to spend Christmas with just the household, and Mom summoned a family meeting, as she did for any major decision.

"Would you guys want to go out to eat instead?" she asked, sounding exhausted by the alternative.

My siblings and I were not the types to ever turn down the opportunity to go out to eat. Restaurant food was inherently better than household food, and you'd never convince us otherwise. Mom could be searing filet mignon and we'd still ask for McDonald's.

I grabbed the seat next to Mom at the restaurant, considered prime real estate. Landen, the youngest and therefore her favorite, always had the guarantee of the other side. Everyone scanned their menus as if they'd be quizzed on the offerings later — except Mom, who did something I rarely saw her do: She relaxed.

There's an obvious privilege in dining out and letting others do the work for you. But being in a public setting didn't make the occasion any less wholesome. As immigrants, we learned that home is the feeling of absolute safety and comfort, easiest to achieve surrounded by loved ones.

Peace was short-lived, and soon the table was up in arms because someone was copying another person's order or had sneezed on someone. You didn't have to sit with my siblings and me for long to feel sympathy for my mother.

But the stress was lifted. Mom could participate without excusing herself to check on dishes, serve, or facilitate the evening. She could focus on experiencing the moment with us rather than trying to make it perfect.

We started going out on holidays

My family must have felt similarly, because after that we began to cheat on holidays when the stars wouldn't align for a homemade spectacle. Mom has always been a perfectionist; she executes plans immaculately or doesn't put her name on them. So some years we found ourselves researching restaurants that serve turkey on Thanksgiving or planning brunch for Christmas.

When I was 22, Mom moved from Palm Beach, Florida, to Minneapolis to start a home-renovation company. But she spent the first year in a temporary apartment before moving into a house. The place had only two bedrooms, and Mom overestimated her ability to host all her adult children.

Chaos ensued in the tight space — but to be fair, we fought like crazy when we each had our own bedroom. We spent Christmas Eve at the restaurant in a hotel adjacent to her building and were the only patrons. There were no colorful lights. No Christmas tree. No curated ornaments or festive trinkets. No traditional cuisine. But we had each other, and I remember so much laughter.

Mom made us go around the table to share what we were thankful for. We pointed out that she was thinking about the wrong holiday.

"So what?" she said.

And Mom was right. There's never a wrong time for gratitude, and there's no "correct" way to celebrate the holidays with your family. She always faced the responsibility to be our father and mother figure, and with age I've come to understand her desperation to create everlasting memories. As we're all in different ZIP codes, there's no longer a guarantee that everyone will be there in December.

Last year we celebrated at home and continued the tradition of decorating the tree together. My brother David took a cardboard snowflake he made as a child — with his baby picture front and center — and hung it on the front of the tree. I approached the aesthetic violation like it might start a fire, hanging the ornament in the back and putting a porcelain dove in its place.

I've developed Mom's spirit and passion for making the most of every occasion — and that means doing it in our style.