I see how you're looking at me. Every year, two days after Thanksgiving, you tear into the crisp, holiday-themed envelope with my personalized address label and think "damn this woman!" You yank out my Christmas card, sneer, open it hoping to find a full-body photograph of me having gained 20 pounds. Then you stick it on of those board thingies that holds the mail and bury it under gutter cleaning fliers until February.
Well I will have you know that my Christmas cards are more than just an occasion to non-ironically style my hair like Diane from Cheers. Sure, perhaps the exactly! matching! outfits I style my kids in is are overkill and the three hours I spent debating Niko's holiday sweater (oatmeal or heather gray? OATMEAL or HEATHER GRAY????) could have been spent pondering deep questions, but I'll have you know there is a point to my cheesey, posed Christmas cards.
It's so I can remember what the hell happened that year.
Seriously, what were you doing in 2007? Was that the year we got engaged, or was I a metric ton while incubating the first baby? SEE! These are questions I have about my own life because with the preschool chapping my behind lately and stacks of enticing junk mail offers piling up in my kitchen, my brain cells are slowly dissolving. I can't remember the timeline of my own life! So. Every year I have rad Christmas cards made that feature our big ole mugs as a record of our history. Every year I get out the old ones and say things like, "ah, so that's when we had the baby!"
Also, I do it to show off.
Image Jeff Holmes Photography
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