The annual Christmas Card Night was last night. To my dismay, I just realized that it very well may be my last.
Ever since we were little, my Mom has written a Christmas letter, you know, with the standard “this is how Kari is doing in second grade, and Kristin, third now, recently conducted a successful science experiment. Oh, and yes, Melinda was finally potty trained.” Each year, without fail, I have been made a mockery. To name a couple examples, my mom said last year that I was a “technical guru.” This year, she’s adding that I wrote a 50,000 word novel in a month. I’m horrified at this. There’s nothing worse than you parent bragging on you about something like that. It always leads to questions…that are incredibly embarrassing.
Anyways, back to the Christmas letter. My mom will print it off, and it usually takes a few hours for our printer to chug out 75-100 copies. If you’re lucky, you get Christmas stationary. If you’re incredibly fortunate, or recently had a family member die, you may receive a Christmas CARD along with the letter.
Next, we will set up the assembly line around the kitchen table. You are ranked according to your age. Youngest usually did the stamps. The next sibling would handle return address labels, oldest handled the labels for the receiver’s address. My dad would stuff the letters into the envelopes, and my mom would handle the delicate letter folding. Around and around the table the letters would travel, with many a loud cry of “keep them alphabetized!!”
Glee cast itself far around with empty sticker sheets, brandished by proud sticker placers. The particular joy rested with the return address placer, however, for there were rolls of “receipt tape” to whirl around. My parents sometimes offered hot chocolate when we were finished…it was a night we all dreaded, but always relished once sitting at the table.
This year I made the hot chocolate. Although, I DID still have the return address label job. Obviously my parents don’t want to let go of me too soon. But still…was that my last year? I don’t want to grow up.

Advertisements