I don’t do Christmas cards.
I should do Christmas cards. I wish I did Christmas cards — when I walk past the rows of green and silver card boxes at the store, they call to me in the same way that new journals and packages of pens do. What writer doesn’t like stationery?
So, I love Christmas cards, but I don’t send them. Our December is a flurry of concerts/soccer practices/goalie training/cheerleading events/basketball games/meals with friends/shopping/packing/tests and projects/more packing/meals with family/birthday parties. You get the idea.
When it all comes to a halt next week and the kids board a plane to spend Christmas in Montana, I plan to write and chill out with friends. I won’t be addressing cards. I won’t be licking stamps. I will be thinking of you, yes. But I am not sending you a card.
Instead, I am sending you my best wishes here.
We have had quite the year, all three of us. What with graduations and new schools, new cheerleading teams and old soccer friends. I never thought a household with a teen and a tween would be so fun. But it is.
I think you’ll see what I mean.
Hope your holiday is the bomb. And your new year is full of laughter.
I know ours will be.