Dear Pottery Barn Kids,
First and foremost, I need to write this before it bounds out of my body through my hands and smashes my helpless computer: Your holiday catalog will not ruin my Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. That is a task solely reserved for my fantastical sense of expectation and propensity to always (always always) skip completely over some crucial part of the Christmas Eve service. Off. Limits.
Now, well-played addressing this to “Zoe Cashin.” Even misspelled, this move pulls directly at my motherly heart strings by falsely (and for retail marketing purposes only) affirming my daughter’s personhood. It’s scary, like you know she’s a first child and therefore I will absolutely melt over anything addressed to her be it a magazine full of woodland creatures around a hearth or a bail bonds advertisement.
But surprisingly, I didn’t go liquid heart with your attempt. It’s just too much. There wasn’t even a tolerance moment as I skimmed. We went straight to over-saturation. A blue eyed, blond haired child decorating a tree pulled in by sleigh with just the right amount of beautifully wrapped presents sprinkled around while a light snow falls?? “Rustic Chestnut” bunk beds made up with vintage holiday print bedspreads and decorated with a garland of candy canes?? A baby doll pram that costs more than a stroller for an actual breathing child?????
If this is a game, you win. Hands down. You win the award for most Christmasy Christmas catalog ever. You even put Target, with their gold-dipped reindeer salt and pepper shakers, to shame. And you know what? You can keep your Fair Isle stocking, “it’s cute ‘cuz it looks like we’re peasants in our worn boots and messy hair but we’re actually stupidly, filthy rich, rich I say!!” Christmas.
I will just stick with my clearance rack, not quite defrosted, “is the tree supposed to lean that way”, Pillsbury slice and bake Christmas, thank you. Because while you might be able to buy personalized kids’ sherpa sleeping bags (oh you know, to go with the Teepee. Page 76 folks.) you still cannot buy the perfect Christmas or its greater aim, happiness.
I’m at least 64% convicted of this and comforted by the fact that even if it turns out we can buy these intangibles, most people would actually have to sell their kids to afford the model you’re pitching.
So there’s that.