Ha! Just kidding.
1. Slate.com did a really funny piece earlier this week on the decline of Christmas cards, speculating that Facebook was the culprit. Since we’re all in constant contact with far-away friends throughout the year, they argued, there’s really no reason to send someone a picture of your kids at Christmas. Despite my recent ambivalence-bordering-on-hostility toward Facebook, I disagree: our mantle is overflowing with lovely Christmas cards from all over the country, including a delightful collection of pictures from my two friends who most vehemently defended the virtues of Facebook.
2. I know that blogging about blogging is kind of the ultimate form of self-indulgent navel-gazing, but the search terms that people have used to land here lately have been fascinating. Lots of people are looking for Christmas messages for aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers who are far away, and several people seem to want to write these messages on wreaths. Someone was looking for an inflatable advent wreath (I show up on the first page of results for that one, which cracks me up). Someone else wanted to know what Brian McLaren had to say about Isaiah 43. Yesterday, someone was looking for “person sleeping on pillow.” I wish I knew how all that worked – and I wonder if by typing these things into a new post, am I making it more likely for someone to find my by searching weird stuff? If only I had lived with someone who was well versed in all things internet. Oh, wait.
3. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve! The excitement of it all has been dawning on Harper, and she’s been particularly – shall we say – animated – every morning this week. She is a deep sleeper, so sometimes it’s hard to wake her up, but this week, as soon as she opens her eyes, her mouth doesn’t stop moving until we drop her off at school (and probably not then, either). One morning, as I was trying to get her to stand still long enough to get her pants on, I was telling her the schedule for the week: school, then church on Christmas Eve, then going to Grandma and Papa’s, then Christmas morning, where, I told her, we would get to stay in our pajamas, eat coffee cake, and open presents. She bolted away from me, ran into the kitchen where Rob was making oatmeal, and shouted, “Daddy! We get to open presents in our PAJAMAS!” I am treasuring these last few days when she thinks the exciting part about Christmas is the pajamas.