Ah, the holiday season is well upon us. Also known as card season.
This year, as with most years, I came up with the idea for our holiday card (always a new year’s card to avoid the whole “we don’t celebrate Christmas” thing). I cajoled my son into contributing a picture. I picked the photos. I came up with captions. I designed the layout. I ordered the cards. I bought the stamps. I printed out the return address label. I sent out–in a timely manner–about 98% of my cards. The few that remain need me to hunt up an address or a husband’s name or the like. I reminded Adam to do his. “I’m going to do it tonight,” he’s said every night for the past two weeks. And within about fifteen minutes, he’s asleep on the couch. In the morning, the card pile hasn’t shrunk at all.
A week ago, I gave up. “Print out your list,” I said. “Let me at least take care of the folks I know.”
“No, no. I’ll do it myself!”
Three days ago: “Print out your list.”
“No, no, I got it.”
Yesterday he printed out a list for me. Today I wrote a good third of his cards (apologies if you’re one of his friends who gets a card from me; in all fairness it just means that I like you, which can’t be said for everyone on his list, so be flattered).
Today he called at 2:30. “I’ll be leaving in a half hour.”
“So you’ll be home normal time?”
“No, I’ll be home early today!”
Sure enough, he walked in the door early. 5:40. A whole 20 minutes early. We ordered in dinner for the family. And then Adam looked at the stack of cards. “Okay,” he said. “I’m ready to help with this.”
Um, excuse me? “Help”? With what? Everything’s been done. He can’t mean he’ll help with his own card list, can he? He saw my face. “I mean, I’m ready to write my cards!”
We’ll see if he’s able. It’s hard to write when someone’s shoved the pen up your a*ss.
