So I guess I'll just come out with it, admit it, come clean. A few months back I ranted about my dislike (okay, hatred) of scrapbooking; of creating scrapbooks, of hearing about the creation of scrapbooks by others, of being in a room where there is a scrapbook; of the whole damn thing. Okay, here's my admission: yesterday, I created a scrapbook. I hear you gasping. It's crazy, really. I still think scrapbooks are a sort of symbol of the slippery slope that all moms must be careful of, that thing in us that makes us lean towards helicopter parenting. That thing I dread most as a parent.
So here I was, I needed to send my mom photos from Christmas. We had a great Christmas, mom came down from NY and my sister and her boyfriend drove up from Wilmington. We got some great photos. I needed to share them with my mom, and make up for not having anything really special to give her Christmas morning. I went to Michael's (which makes me sick to my stomach, by the way, aisles jammed with crafty crap and the lines at the checkout always so long and hideously boring) and found a photo album and then wandered over to the aisle with the stickers and found Christmas ones, with adorable reindeer and kept looking and found more Christmas ones with stars...Suffice it to say, that yesterday my dining room table looked like Michael's exploded all over it. But I had fun, there in my pj's gluing and sticking, and typing up little notes for the pages (here's us chopping down our tree, here's the gingerbread house, here are the boys tearing open presents). Then I really got into it, and it pains me to even admit this, but I made some little decorations. I cut up some nice blue paper and made tiny little presents to glue all over the page, and I cut gold paper to look like tiny little ribbons and white paper to look like tiny little cards that said: to: Miles, and to: Willem, and Love, Santa.
I enjoyed it. Dear god, I did. And I know my mom will love it.
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