The Christmas ANTI-Letter

It's that time of year again, when Christmas Cards, Festive Photos, and Brag Letters fill your mailbox. I'm guilty of contributing to this vile tradition. Last year I sent out about 100 cards, each with a 4X6 photo of our new baby girl propped up next to a stuffed snowman. Blame it on new parent euphoria. You know, that state of sappiness brought on by sleep-deprivation and gurgly baby smiles; it convinces you that your child is just the most adorable thing this planet has ever seen, and everyone should behold their cuteness.

This year, I almost didn’t send out Christmas cards at all. I kept trying to get a good “holiday-appropriate” photo of my daughter. However, at 15 months, there is no propping. There is no sitting still. There is no HOPE of a decent photo. Not to mention the fact that, in her exuberance for her new found walking skills, she tends to sport bumps and bruises on her sweet little face obtained from steps that fell too short, too long, or too fast for her still-learning little legs. Since I didn’t feel like mass-mailing pictures that would make our friends and families ponder calling the child protection services on us, I finally (the weekend before Christmas) decided to send out cards, sans photos.

I very briefly toyed with the idea of writing one of those Christmas Letters, for about 10 seconds, then I ate some chocolate and the feeling passed. I’ve since decided that I should write the ANTI-Letter this year.

It’s been quite the year. Our daughter has grown and is a constant challenge. Now that she’s walking, she’s into freaking everything. If I watch her eat one more crumb off the kitchen floor, I think I’m going to hurl. It wouldn’t be so bad if I kept the kitchen cleaner, I suppose. But in between the TLC and HGTV addictions, who has time? She’s talking more and more every day. She’s starting to repeat what we say, which means we’ve got to clean up our language around the old homestead, d@mn it all to h3ll. Our other “child” (the four-legged furry one) has got doggy arthritis and has to take expensive doggy pain killers everyday to keep some pep in his step.

It’s been the year from Hades for our house. All the stucco on the front had to be replaced because of cracks and imminent water damage from lack of a waterproofing layer underneath the stucco. The basement flooded after our sump pump got jammed. Yes, the FINISHED basement. And we learned that, even though we took out the sump pump rider, only structural damages were covered. So, all our personal property that was water-logged was a complete loss. We got new carpet out of the deal, but our color choice doesn’t really match the existing wall color, so now we’re going to have to repaint the whole basement. Ugh. We just got a two-hundred dollar gas bill for the past month even though our house is always cold and drafty. Double-ugh.

My husband has been a social butterfly (or perhaps maybe just a moth) as a member of the local Curling Club and the new local Canadian-Expats club. I’m not sure what that’s all a-boot, but I think he misses his native land, eh? Other than that, he’s working his hind-end off and is not properly appreciated for all his efforts. Typical.

I’ve been the opposite. I went back to work part-time after becoming a mom and spend all my time at the office wishing I were home with my daughter. And then I spend all my time at home wishing that I could escape and be a real adult again and have conversations that didn’t involve Sesame Street, toddler diet plans, diaper details, and nap schedules. Unless, of course, we want to talk about ME getting a nap. That would be heaven. Let’s talk about that. Ha. Oh, and I’m still fat. Let’s not talk about that.

For Christmas decorating this year, I tried to find a happy medium somewhere between white-trash-inflatable-snowmen-and-Santa-lawn-decorations and kill-yourself-with-creativity-while-bankrupting-yourself-to-the-local-craft-store-Martha-Stewart-esque-creations. While I succeeded in avoiding either extreme, my décor still turned out pretty crappy.

It’s been quite the year for our loved ones, too. My best friend got divorced and her brother was nearly murdered. My grandfather had his right leg amputated just below the knee. My mother-in-law’s husband had his combine catch fire and burn up the day before harvesting. There’s other family drama crap that isn’t public knowledge, so I can’t write about it without royally pissing off those I love.

So, at this time of year, try to celebrate the holidays in your own special way without pissing off your friends and family with a sappy letter. Instead of stressing about shopping and giftlists, think about all the American soldiers killed in Iraq and how their families are celebrating without them this year, and every year, from now on. Try not to get your panties in a wad when someone wishes you “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas”, because maybe that someone is Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist or Atheist. This is America, the land of the free. Free to NOT be a Christian, if you so choose. And if you ARE Christian, try not to act in a preaching, intolerant, unchristian manner. Hug your family and appreciate them for putting up with all your crap. That’s what families do, love you in spite of it all.

And, give it up for your friends, you can tell who they are because they’re the ones ridiculing you to your face, instead of behind your back. Forgive yourself for being occasionally petty and mean, because we’ve all been there and PMS is real. Be polite to retail workers this time of year, because even though last minute shopping SUCKS, waiting on last-minute shoppers SUCKS MORE. Drink eggnog with abandon and sneak another cookie, because you can worry about it next week when it’s time for New Year’s resolutions. Next year, I resolve … to be less sarcastic. (Yeah, right. Like that’ll happen.)