My very first writing gig was the family Christmas letter.
My mom maintains an extensive Christmas card list and always sent a one-page update on the family along with her holiday greetings. She assigned the job to me somewhere in high school and I took it as an excuse to be hilarious.
The letters toasted the year and roasted my mom.
You’ve heard of self-deprecating humour, but have you heard of mom-deprecating humour?
Mostly, the letters teased my mom about her extreme crafting, like the time she made the entire Sunday School membership head-to-toe costumes overnight, or when she levelled up her cake decorating skills by earning her fondant badge and promptly making a life-sized snowman head. It was severed from its body, but you have to understand she was running an operating room at the time. Context is everything.
One letter told the story of her three-day scrapbooking binge. We found her in her craft shack covered in curly-edged paper clippings, fingers stuck together with double-sided tape and seven pairs of fancy shears wrapped into her hair. The glitter never came out of the carpet.
But let this be a warning to all daughters, you can’t play that close to the fire without roasting yourself a little.
This Christmas I intended to make some homemade gifts and by the time the holiday arrived I had plans and supplies for three hand-made gifts per family member in three different crafting mediums. I don’t remember what the finish on my dining room table looks like.
I can’t even admit the number of gingerbread cookies I’ve made this year.
The other day, I watched a movie and asked no fewer than a dozen questions to my husband about who "that guy" is and "why did he do that?" even though this was also his first time watching it.
Later, I was sitting in a chair finishing the fourth crochet toque of the afternoon when I realized: I’ve become my mother.
Not in every way, of course.
I doubt a surgeon would find much purpose for my macrame craft in an operating room. I'd be useless in a hospital. I can't even operate an MRI machine, but I heard CAT-scan.
Listen, you can't spell pundit without a pun.
Turns out, I’ve also become my father.
That’s good because he needs someone to send Far Side comics to and someone who will enjoy a shot of maple syrup at the breakfast table with him. We bond over jokes and sugar.
The Christmas holidays are a good excuse for bonding time.
At our gatherings we typically play a minimum of eight hours of euchre over a day or so, bonding through the clunky leads and “quadukes,” which is a term we’ve made for a run of four euchres.
If we had a family crest and motto, it would say “never trump your partner’s ace.” Anyone know what that is in Latin?
We go for walks (most of us have dogs) and we eat. We drink lots of coffee and we sometimes sing karaoke. Someone usually brings a new board game to try. There’s tons of laughing, and lots of roasting.
We share our favourite things with our favourite people, and along the way we discover all the favourites we have in common.
Maybe I am a little like my mom and my dad, and also my brothers, cousins, aunts and uncles.
I guess those Star Trek villains were right, resistance is futile (and less fun).
Family resemblance, it seems, is a little bit nature and a whole lot of nurture.
Erika Engel writes and edits for CollingwoodToday. She wishes you and your family a Merry Christmas and hopes you enjoy some bonding time.
