A Picture Painted in Lipstick Kisses
I get blown away everytime I get lovely shocks like people from my past leaving me comments like this:
~~~
"No harm in being melodramatic Lyd. I'm prone to a bit of melodrama in my own writing at times I suspect though, you're more of a romantic which filters through the sharing of your life journey, bringing the intensity out in some of your writing - far more than I'd say melodramatic. You're beautiful Lyd. Never forget that. Never forget that without a little romance, life would certainly be somewhat bleak."
~~~
This--mind you--from a lady who was the head lady leader on the team I went with to Cambodia four and a half years ago. Lina, you're awesome!
In the main frame of things, however, the current opinion seems to think I'm definately a hopeless romantic and somewhere between somewhat melodramatic and not at all. Hopeless romantic I can take but melodramatic still scares me. Though, I guess, if you're going to tell me Rach H. (aka Crazy Lady) that it's mandatory for good writing then I better get over it. When I die, though, from a bursting of melodramatic writing block in my pen, I'm sending my ghost to haunt you with unrelenting inspiration when you're in the checkout dying from fatigue. Ha.
I love my Daddy (I guess my Mum does, too).
We had such a fun Christmas. Simple--but as I'm coming to realize more and more--very sweet. We have a few traditions we always keep to. We always get up at around five Christmas morning to open all our presents together. We have those fun little cereal boxes for breakfast, a huge Christmas lunch. And then our biggest one of all--our annual family swim. My Mum and Dad hardly ever swim but on Christmas day it's tradition--they do.
I've been thinking ocassions like Christmas are like those lipstick paintings we made as kids. Anyone else ever do that when you were little? I remember we used to beg mum and she would rummage through her make-up until she found the brightest, cheapest tube of red lipstick she had. Then she'd smear it, strong and thick, on our puckered lips and then show us how to make funny shapes on a white piece of paper. I remember we were suppose to give most of our red offerings to the white paper but, if we were lucky, we'd find a chance to land a big red smacker on an unsuspecting cheek.
It came to me the other day that Christmas's are kind of like that. It's the traditions I realize I'll always remember: the way the little boys jump on top of me to wake me up at five o'clock, the way I always want the fruit loops cereal box but because someone else gets it first I always end up with cocoa pops, and how I can never remember which of the drinks at lunch is my favourite and so end up having half a cup of every kind.
It's as if the celebration of Christmas is the white piece of paper and the presents are the bright red lipstick. It's what we make of them--the hugs, the laughter, and the jokes in the giving--that are the true painting. I rather think I wouldn't have anything much to smile about if I couldn't look back and see a lazy day of celebration covered in random, lopsided, smudged kisses. One colour of Christmas is after all red.
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