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In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I searched high and low for "Baby's First Christmas" apparel. It wasn't hard to find in the department stores, toy stores and children's clothing stores. But they don't seem to make it in my baby's size.

Although he's 10 months old this Christmas, Jackson wears 12-month and 18-month size clothing. Apparently, babies who wear that size are supposed to be celebrating their second Christmas. Not even the hats fit his big-boy head.

Charlie, my older son, was born in November, so we did not have this problem three years ago. In fact, Charlie was decked head to toe in "First Christmas" duds. So, mother-guilt caused me to fret over this wardrobe inequality.

I imagined a Christmas 10 years from now, when Charlie and Jackson would be looking at photos from Christmases past (do boys even do this?), and Jackson would notice that Charlie's first Christmas was commemorated with bibs, hats, T-shirts and sleepers, while he wore a generic red shirt. Would he think that Charlie's first Christmas was more special? Would he see this as another piece of evidence that the oldest child always gets the best treatment?

But there was nothing I could do about the unavailability of "Baby's First Christmas" clothes in big-boy sizes -- and had neither the time nor the skills to fashion them myself -- so I began to make mental notes about Jackson's first Christmas instead.

I will tell him, if he ever asks, that this was the Christmas our family finally made good on our intentions to stay home for holidays. Instead of stretching ourselves across the map and spreading ourselves too thin, we told our families we planned to be in our own home when Santa came to visit. We were lucky enough to have one set of grandparents visit before Christmas, and the other grandparents and aunt to visit after Christmas. But on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, we were cozy and snug in our own home, just the four of us. We stayed in our pajamas, had grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch and played all day with our new toys. It was perfect.

I will tell Jackson, if he ever asks, that he was the picture of joy on his first Christmas. When we attended the family friendly Christmas Eve service at our church, Jackson clapped to the beat of "Go, Tell it on the Mountain" and shook his container of Cheerios while the congregation sang "Joy to the World."

I will tell Jackson that as his first Christmas approached, his big brother brought me a toy catalog as I made dinner one night. "Mommy, I think Jackson would really like this," Charlie said, as he pointed to a picture of a wooden train with stacking blocks. So Charlie and I made a special trip to the store to buy that train so he could give it to his baby brother. And Jackson gave Charlie a fire truck with lights and sirens and a working ladder. The boys exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve, and the real miracle was how nicely they both shared those toys with each other.

It hasn't taken long for me to forgive myself for not finding or making a "Baby's First Christmas" outfit for Jackson. Who needs the souvenir T-shirt when I have all these memories to treasure? Maybe Jackson will never notice what he was wearing in the pictures from this Christmas. Maybe he will never ask questions. But I'll probably tell him anyway about how perfect his first Christmas was.

Bridget B. Winston traded a newspaper career for a more demanding job -- motherhood. She continues to write in her free time -- after changing the diapers, putting away the toys and lulling her son to sleep. She lives with her family in Christiansburg.