I was sitting on the sofa, nursing a snotty nosed, stuffed up, miserable little boy, while building a Lego castle with an I-refuse-to-be-ignored older brother. It was well after noon. We were all still in our pajamas, surrounded by snowy Kleenex drifts, unable to see out the windows as they were steamed up from the humidifier pumping in the corner, and we all smelled of Vick's Vapo-Rub. In an act of desperation, I sent my son to the mailbox as a diversionary tactic. It was the undoing of my last jangling nerve. I was ripe for a fight.

The letter stuck its nasty foot out from under the pile of bills and advertising fliers and tripped me up. I opened it. Twenty seconds later, the Yard Yeti Revolution began.

The Christmas letter was from a college friend. The mother of three, with a full time job outside the home, and a jolly ho-ho-ho list of outside activities she regaled with such offhand delight, I felt my blood begin to boil. The coach of her daughter's synchronized swim team, which placed second in state finals. Her own by-line and column in the local paper. And finally, the spark that lit the fire, started the blaze, ignited the inferno...in her SPARE time, taking flying lessons to become a full fledged pilot.  An Ace.

I saw red. And green. And my own pitiful Christmas letter still sitting on the kitchen table, covered in peanut butter and jelly. The Joker.

I waited. I fumed. I steamed. Stomped and pouted and rode the red rage wagon around the house until midnight. Everyone in bed, asleep, my major and only accomplishment of the day, I sat down at the computer with a glass of wine and roared to life.

I wrote:

"Personally, I don't want to hear that you finished all your holiday shopping during the Labor Day sales...managed to buy everything for less than $2...have put up your tree, which you bought at an ecologically controlled shelter for foster fir trees...use only recyclable tinsel...that your children made all their presents while learning to speed read in German...and that your condo in the Alps has tripled in value."

"But that certainly doesn't mean that I cannot tell you that our children are both Pre-Med at Yale, or that the old man and I are driving matching Lamborghinis, or that I have lost 96 pounds on a liquid bran and corn dog diet, or that the most annoying part of my day is snagging my 9 carat diamond on my cashmere sweaters...and if you want to believe any or all of the above I suggest you stop reading right here."


The following Christmas, I actually found myself eager to put pen to page. Gleeful. A bit of holiday madness. A chance to let loose in flying keystrokes the wonder and folly of our household. To share stories. Silly, comical misadventures and rollicking rantings about parenting, teenagers, travel disasters and my own struggles growing up and older.

One by one the cards landed in the mailbox. Most were printed on pretty paper, embellished with current photos...but at the very end...in ink...a postscript...

It wouldn't be Christmas without your letter.

We look forward to hearing your adventures with great glee, don't forget us. 

More...More...More...Please. 

You are the smile under our tree.

Year by year I built quite a following...but truth be told...I was a follower as well. Stories. We were all busy telling stories of our lives, our loves, our dreams, our hopes, our disappointments, our successes and failures, our wins and sadly, our losses. Exactly what friends and family are for, telling tales at Christmas. Whether down the block or across the miles, a quiet moment to sit and read, coffee in hand, and catch up.

Just like the Yard Yeti Motto: "Tick Tock goes the clock. Time won't stand still, but we can. Let's catch up."

One of the letters stands out as a personal favorite and still makes me smile. Here goes....a blast from the past...1996.