It's almost the middle of February, and you know what that means: I'm finally getting around to sending our Christmas Thank You's out!
I know. It's terrible. And while I do feel bad about how late they are, I take solace in remembering all the times my aunt Sherry would randomly hand me a (handcrafted, unfailingly adorable) gift and say things like "This is your Christmas gift" (it was June) or "Here's your sixteenth birthday present" (I was eighteen), except her excuse was a little more legitimate: quilting and sewing and such takes buckets of time. Writing a Thank You card does not, unless you're me (or Adelaide), who can turn even the simplest of tasks into something ridiculously time-consuming. And I loved getting those gifts from Sherry! It gave you the sense that any day could erupt into a spontaneous holiday, that unexpected quilted penguins might be lurking around any corner (which is more whimsical and less menacing than I just made it sound).
I had set aside one day last week as The Day I Would Get All Kinds Of Things Done, chief amongst them completing at least three Christmas Thank You's. At this point I feel I should clarify that these Thank You's have been half-done, sitting on the kitchen counter for at least a month. I usually have all three kids color a picture for each person who was generous enough to send them a gift, then I include a hand-written note, which is all a great idea in theory but in practice generally means that many of our family and friends receive two pieces of paper scribbled with crayons but missing the note from me explaining what that's all about. I don't worry about this too much; I think anyone receiving something in the mail with our return address on it instinctively knows that they're about to have a little bewilderment injected into their day. Martha Stewart with her scented stationery and perfect handwriting I am not. (I actually don't know if she possesses either of those things. With Martha I always assume the worst, and by "worst" I mean anything that is better than what I am capable of, and by "anything" I mean everything.)
Unfortunately, the afternoon of my would-be productive day was hijacked by a particularly vicious asthma attack. After I'd more or less recovered, I decided I could still complete the notes for several of the Thank You's, this despite the fact that anything more than four hits off my inhaler makes my hands shake pretty bad. I'm also halfway convinced albuterol somehow affects brain function, namely that it speeds it up, but not in a way that makes you good at debates or improv; instead it sends your brain down rarely-wandered paths at higher speeds than normal, then tells you to write it all down in this here letter you're sending to your Mom's husband's parents. (Dear Dale and Mary: I'm sorry.)
We still don't have all those notes done. Valentines for school? Yes. Thank You's associated with Christmas? Nope.