You all know me cyberly-well enough by now to know that I really do love Christmas. The whole crazy, sparkling, nostalgic, frantic package tied up with tinsel. But if I had to choose--say an anti-Santa was holding a --2 elements of the season that can send me over the edge of sanity, I would choose the Christmas picture and baking cookies as my least favorite yuletide tasks.
I don't know why Amy hates to be photographed, but she does. SHe can be a Lladro statue of beauty one minute, and the minute she hears the chime of the digital camera turn on, she's suing the tabloid papparazzi and pulling a pair of Jackie O. sunglasses from her diaper. Her ten word vocabulary includes, "no comment." But every night I subject us all to getting a photo for the Christmas card. And every night I get 10 blurred curl shots or pictures of the boys being perfect and Amy's leg as she runs out of the frame. I don't know why, but this is something stuck in my maternal craw as the definition of a good or horrendous mother, of which I need no more evidence of the latter.
So I'm giving up baking. Oh, I'll cook. I'll roast. I'll flambe and I'll broil. I'll saute, pan-sear, grill and braise. But if it involves the oven and a can of Crisco, I'm not doing it.
Happy weekend everyone, it's going to be a busy one around here.