Before I had kids
I swore I would never be one of ‘those' moms who sent out Christmas cards with
pictures of their kids on the front. I enjoyed the festive photos Hallmark had
to offer, of snowmen and Santas, even a picture of Jesus was just alright with
me. However I dreaded getting pictures of other people's kids in some corny
outfit, posing in front of a fake fireplace, or at the beach in shorts and
Santa hats. Was all this really necessary just to wish someone a Merry
Christmas? And anyway, what was I
supposed to do with all those photos of overdressed children forcing a smile
for the camera? Save them in a photo album marked ‘people I only see at
Christmas,' or toss them out with the fruit cake? I must admit, I'm guilty of
the latter.
Even after I had
my first son I still managed to send out an uninhibited Christmas greeting. No
frills, no pictures, just ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New Year'. But then the complaints started pouring in. ‘Where's
the picture of the baby? We want to see the kids.' Who were these people?
Why should I have
to go out and spend way too much money on a card I don't want to make, that's
going to end up under a big pile of coffee grinds in someone else's garbage?
Bah humbug!
But peer pressure
got the better of me, and I spent the next few Christmases dressing up my
unwilling children in matching red and black tartan, and Irish knit sweaters. I
placed them in front of the fireplace and jumped up and down, making ridiculous
faces and saying absurd things; anything to induce a smile. Alas, smiles did
not come easily, and I ended up a sweaty, angry mess yelling ‘Smile goddam it!'
The final straw
occurred last year. Not only did I need
to get the three children's Christmas pictures, but my husband decided we
should also get a family portrait. In his infinite wisdom, he thought it would
be a great idea to meet after work - you know, the end of the day when kids are
tired, hungry and cranky. But with the children in their Christmas finest, I
packed them up and headed out to the Worst Place on Earth aka the department
store photo studio. It was also at this time I noticed the baby had a small
amount of yellow goop oozing from his eyes. Nothing a Wet One couldn't take care
of, while we waited patiently for my husband.
An hour and half
later he finally made it. The kids were antsy, hungry and tired. My paltry supply
of snacks was long gone. With each half hour that passed, the yellow goop in my
baby's eyes was becoming thicker and crustier. He looked like a yellow version
of Frank Zappa.
My husband didn't
seem bothered at all, but he was a Christmas card virgin, so he really didn't
know what to expect. This was usually my self-inflicted injury, but I was more
than happy to share the pain.
When they finally
called us in for the picture we were greeted by the unhappy photographer. She
lowered the tacky fake Christmas screen, and the children were placed together.
By the time she got back to her camera, my goopy-eyed baby was crawling away. She
came back, repositioned them again, got back to her lens, and oops, baby ooze
was on the run. The frustration was building, which of course was making the
children laugh; too bad they weren't sitting together. When we finally did
manage to corral all three, none of them would look at the camera, no one was
smiling, my husband's Christmas cheer had become a sneer, and those familiar
beads of sweat were accumulating under my armpits.
All I wanted to do
was go home, put the kids to bed and crack open a big fat bottle of red wine,
which is exactly what I did.
I vowed ‘Never again!'
But, never say ‘never,' because now it's that time of year again, and my
husband who forgets everything, must have forgotten last year's Christmas card
from hell, because he just said to me, ‘We have to get the kids' pictures done
for the Christmas card.' I rolled my eyes and let out a groan of misery. ‘No
problem, hun, I'll put it on my ‘to do' list.'
I put it just
under the first item on that list: Buy one case very strong red wine.
