I love holiday cards and holiday letters.

My mother would mail typed notes to friends and family members all year long, with chatty news about what we were up to, and responses to previous letters from these friends around the country. (Virginia Evans’ novel The Correspondent brought back memories of these letters, and I’m sure I’m not the first person in your life to recommend this book!)

When Mom passed away, some of her friends shared letters they’d received over the years. It was so sweet to see these little tidbits from daily life. “So glad things are straightened out with the cat!” or “Loved the story of your Jane and the trouble with her roommate.” It was through one of these letters I learned that Mom emphatically did not enjoy my dad’s over-the-top Halloween displays, which surprised me (I loved them so much) but also offered a view of her as a person. It was comforting to hear her voice and see the ways she reached out to people.

Over the years, she transitioned to a generic holiday letter, with space for a few typed sentences at the bottom.

I’ve kept up her tradition, sending cards most years, and usually a holiday letter. After we had kids I thought we’d only need to include cute photos and news and we’d be set. That worked for a long time. But when our oldest hit her teens, and hit hard, the annual holiday card was suddenly cast in a harsh new light. Sorting through the year’s photos, I’d realize that eliminating those where she was hiding her face, glowering, or shooting the bird, there were slim pickings left for a card. On the one hand, I felt I had a right to hold onto any pleasant memories we’d managed during a tantrum filled year. Merry f***ing Christmas Everyone! On the other hand, who was I kidding? At what point was that one half smiling photo a lie?

This, of course, is the problem with social media as well. We naturally want to put up the good moments, but long scrolls of our friend’s high points can make us feel they are having a better time, a better life, and certainly more cooperative kids, than we are. This despite the obvious truth that the people I know have told me about their real lives, and their stories are just as complex as mine. Somehow I can know this truth, but refuse to believe it as I count smiling teens on holiday cards I get. Another European vacation and the kids seem like they are having a blast at the art museum!

I’m fortunate that unlike our disastrous social media cultural experiment, my holiday card dilemma is a minor problem, like so many things I obsess over when the bigger things seem unsurmountable. As always, give it a few years and things change. Our oldest will smile now, our youngest tries to be angry but can be tricked into a smirk. Nobody will be surprised to hear that 98% of a year’s phone snaps of the kids would NOT say “happy holidays.” So it’s not really fraud. Grit can be useful: stiff upper lip, a strong face in adversity.

But my whole life I’ve longed to feel more genuine, to fight the urge to pretend. It was a tough year in many ways. How can we tell the truth without either whining on the one hand, or fake chirpy denial on the other? Our daughter is not finding herself loving college, and is figuring out a different plan for next year. Our son can’t quite get to class as often as his education-loving dads would wish. Friends need some parts replaced, and over it all hovers the “what’s next” of our sneaking up empty nest.

As I think about previous year’s dramas and struggles, I notice that often the train didn’t come off the tracks as we feared, even if it wasn’t headed in quite the direction we preferred. We’ve had to broaden our hopes for the kids and get less specific. If I can drop my certainty that my dreams for them are the only way to go, it’s easier to cheer them on, even as they struggle to find the right way. How can I know what they should do? I think the world they’re coming of age in is extraordinarily challenging, with “certainties” about college and career paths feeling less sure all the time.

By the way, back to holiday cards, one of the areas where my mom was a pioneer was in the Valentine’s, St Patrick’s, or even Easter card, which for her was a drawing of a snowy scene with Santa, the Christmas message inside crossed out and repurposed to something closer to the actual sending date. This is now a mini-trend I notice, though senders now design cards with hearts or shamrocks or bunnies. Counter programming? And a lovely way of admitting we can’t always get it all together at the end of each year, with toothy grinned children celebrating what great dads we are. Or even if we do produce such a greeting, it’s also true that, however good it looks, I suspect all of us are slogging through the best we can, both hoping nobody finds out, while also praying they do.

I didn’t get this done in time for Groundhog Day, but I hope your next celebration comes with some genuine smiles.