Holiday cards are flying thick and fast. Despite my grumbling about the long lines at the post office, seeing a handwritten envelope — better yet in a friend’s handwriting — always brightens my walk back from the mailbox.
As I climbed into my 30s and felt more certain about wanting a family of my own, my mailbox suddenly filled with holiday cards from friends who had forged ahead — thick-stocked, glossy rectangles (sometimes with beveled edges!) showcasing their newborns. Yet, one of the things that always confused me was why the cards didn’t include a picture of my friend or a partner. To my surprise, they were often devoid of any kind of personal message beyond the pre-printed greeting. I chalked this up to the new parent exhaustion I’d heard about, but didn’t really believe (little did I know).
I’d look at the cards and wonder where my friend was. Were they so entirely subsumed into their kids’ lives that they didn’t feel a need to represent themselves — literally? Or did they see their kids as the entire message, hence there was no need for their familiar faces? Were they hiding the pregnancy weight that hadn’t left or the dark circles their darlings imposed? How much time would it take to scribble “I miss you” or “XO” and their name at the bottom? Where had they gone, I wondered, besides into this land where their child planted in a flowerpot (à la Anne Geddes) seemed to be all they wanted to present.
Years later, when I was finally trying to have a child, and realized I wouldn’t magically be exempt from the difficulties waiting so long meant, I couldn’t bring those cards into my house. There was one especially difficult holiday season, after my third miscarriage, when I tore each into tiny shreds just inside my front door then put the scraps into a garbage bag that I immediately tossed into the outside bin. Every montage of a party-dressed or grubby-overalled toddler felt like an arrow stabbing at what I might not ever have. It felt brutal to see these images, even though I knew they were a shutter’s-long mask pasted over the messy realities of their parents’ lives.
When I finally had a pregnancy that looked like it would stick, as some solace for all my husband and I went through, we indulged in a two-part “maternity shoot.” I’m still struck by how happy I look in these pictures — my husband’s hands wrapped around my pregnant belly in an embrace I never thought I’d feel. When our little person was 9 months old we redeemed the second part of our package. Being able to take those pictures felt like a balm to me, a drop of honey over salt, an elixir for a grief I thought would never be cured.
We hadn’t planned on using the pictures for a holiday card. But, in the end, we did, partly with the desire to share the happiness we felt with those who knew how much we had gone through. And I had to admit it brought some satisfaction to partake in a parenthood ritual from which I had thought I would be permanently excluded.
Yet, I can’t but wonder who I hurt with these cards. My single friends weren’t printing up selfies of themselves looking adventurous during far-flung trips. And I knew of other married friends who were struggling to conceive. What I couldn’t know was who might have just had a miscarriage, or was told her eggs were too old, or was crying in the bathroom that month when an unwanted period arrived again.
A few years ago, the hashtag #MomStaysinThePicture went viral. The point was that mothers were too often behind the camera taking pictures of their kids to be included or were deliberately avoiding being seen. Having their kids recognize them as not flawed in that moment, even if they looked tired or were carrying extra weight or didn’t “look their best,” was the message behind this movement. It was a message I embraced. I thought about that when I sent out cards that year. Yes, I want to share how my son looked so that distant friends and family could see his growth (and, I’ll admit it, those chubby cheeks), but I made certain there were also images of my husband and myself. That’s who our family is —not just him to represent the three of us.
Motherhood, I’ve found, is an exercise in layering — the 20-something I was once is still in there and, at the same time, I am utterly transformed. I want to be honest in my friendships and not reinforce a ritual that alienates some of my dearest friends or disguises who I am now. So, I send selectively, trusting that distant friends know how important it is to me to share my son with them. And I sent non-photo cards to those friends I knew were silently mourning not having a child, at least, at this time. I trust that these friends know that I grieve with them as they are denied what they most want.
A few years ago, the Wall Street Journal ran an intriguing piece about how the holiday card has evolved and the visual rhetoric of announcing life changes without words. During the pandemic, I was glad to see more honesty revealed, even in the templates that were offered on photo sites. “Good Riddance!” was the stock phrase offered on the template I picked as I uploaded pictures of Zoom school, home haircuts and the porch portrait a friend snapped as we chatted with the prescribed distance between us.
Last January, I met up with a friend for an afternoon’s “map-your-year” planning session. My notebook filled rapidly with gallant ideas for various quadrants of my life — writing goals, health, travel, exercise — much of which didn’t pan out due to unexpected health crises in my immediate family and the passing of my mother-in-law. If there’s been one major lesson of this past year, it’s how easily my grandmother’s favorite Yiddish expression, “Man plans, God laughs,” is applied. I want our card this year to reveal the range of emotion this year has forced — plans dissolve in a second. No filtered Insta-washing can change that.
The holiday photo card (the visual evolution of the holiday letter) has always seemed to me in the same category as the alumni magazine entry — a snapshot highlighting the person’s best, most recent accomplishments. Where were the pithy comments about career angst or personal disappointment? Perhaps honesty just never was the point. But when the Photoshopped portraits start filling my mailbox in matching envelopes (those inside often in matching sweaters), it can take a minute to remember that just seconds before and seconds after the click, someone’s hair was a mess and the baby started having a tantrum.
I’m sure there will be some windswept beach scenes, everyone in matching white, at least in southern California. I’ll include a hopeful message in my cards (which I usually get out in January), but I will also acknowledge that 2023 was hard. I hope to see my friends in their holiday cards, and not just their kids, to witness their changes as well.
Elline Lipkin is a poet, writer, editor and academic. Learn more at ellinelipkin.com.
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