In my Christmas letter I try to remember the not-so-bright spots in the year, the few embarrassing moments, so I can share these things with the Christmas letter readers. It warms their hearts and cheers their souls to find out I slept in the spare room for three hours one night not so long ago because my mostly understanding husband found my tossing and turning irritating. I only lasted three hours because I missed him. I suppose after consistently sleeping beside one’s husband for 33 years that can’t be helped.
Christmas letter readers find it endearing to know I’m wearing baggy sweaters this year to conceal my bulging midriff. No I am not pregnant.
They revel in the information that we could practically drink one of my lemon meringue pies this past year—that after I spent years perfecting my lemon pie to the point where it surpassed my mother-in-law’s. My daughter tells me I should spend less baking-time on the phone. Cordless phones do have disadvantages.
But, in a Christmas letter to maintain good family relations, the junk involving my loved ones is no-go territory. The report-card F. The cult connection. The gossip fiasco. These are not entirely mine to tell.