The Year Without a Christmas Card

If you have children, you have likely plopped down to watch The Year Without a Santa Claus.  Actually, I remember that movie from my youth, and I am pretty far out from my “youth,” so the movie is pretty stinkin old (I am not).  Though years have passed, claymation remains quite the delight in my world, and Heat Miser and Snow Miser do not lose their magnetism.  They still cause me to stop in my tracks and stare, and I am not sure why.  Creepy old animated man-beasts singing and strutting around hold my attention.  Go figure. 

In any case, this is not to be about creepy man-beasts.

This is about creepy me.

And, to be fair, creepy is probably the wrong word, but complicated is close, so we will go with that:  this is about complicated me.

I can complicate anything, to include the sending of Christmas cards.

You didn’t get one last year or this year, right?  Right.  That was not because you got taken from “the list.”  That was because the sender is complicated.

See, I took something beautiful and turned it into something gross.  I took a greeting, and I turned it into a stage of sorts, where I would display the perfect image of my family.  Lies.  It was all lies, that picture.  My kids only looked like that for a split second, and only from the waist up.  I took pictures while smacking myself in the forehead, mumbling and growling catchy phrases at my children, memorable phrases like, “What is wrong with your face?”

The day of taking Christmas Card Pictures in my house became a sort of doom that loomed in the distance.  I would announce, “Tomorrow, we will take Christmas pictures,” and children would break out in sweats and binge eat for the rest of the day.  They began to replay that low, deep, tuck-your-chin-into-your-chest-look-out-the-very-top-of-your-eyeballs voice, which I used, while taking Christmas card pictures, pictures that would be sent out to the people, the people who might never guess I could/can conjure up such a husky, peculiar tone as that

But, why would you think that of me – I mean...the card...the illustrious Christmas card, so well-planned and perfectly selected, all glittery and warm.  It did not suggest over-caffeinated banshee taking pictures whilst alternating between low ill-mannered coercion and high “Smile Pretty” coos at her subjects.  Merry Christmas, mom’s a psycho!

Why did I care so much about that picture...about that card?

Because it was going out as a representation of me...of us, and I wanted it to be perfect.

I don’t think I should pour time...money...or emotions into something that shallow.  Not that the sending of Christmas cards is shallow – I am sure you do it with much moral tenacity and very little self promotion.   I, on the other hand, can complicate...can twist and spoil...even a greeting card.

And so, I put myself on the wagon.

I am not allowed to send you cards.

Yet, I care about you and hope you had a wonderful Christmas.  I hope you are off to a terrific New Year.

I am happy I didn’t lie to you with another perfect picture and pithy salutation.

Rather, I come to you on Facebook and occasionally via blog, raw and flawed,

so that you will know the real me,

the one who is just like the real you.

Merry belated Christmas...we are all still in our underwear.