Every year, I buy Christmas cards.
Most years I write in them.
Some years I stamp and address them.
I haven't mailed any in approximately 13 years. (If you received one more recently than that, feel free to correct me). Sometime in February or March I stealthily clean out my desk and throw them all away. And vow to get to the post office on time, this year.
This year, I bought the cards in October. Beautiful, individual, handmade cards that cost a pretty enough penny that logically, my skinflint nature will balk at throwing them away, and so I will mail them–right?
I sat my kids down one fine Monday evening in November and we all wrote in the cards. The six year old drew pictures. I told myself it's the thought that counts, not our verbosity, and really, who really cares enough to read a summary of our last year who doesn't already keep up with it in other ways, right?
My fifteen-year-old addressed them in her immaculate hand (a computer scanner can convert this girl's writing into text) and my twelve year old stamped them all.
I am worried that because the cards are handmade and bulky, they will need extra postage though, so I decided I need to actually take them down to the post office.
One day during post office hours.
When I don't have any kids with me.
And–there they sit. Stamped, addressed, sealed, sitting on my table.