A bijillion years ago, I started making coffee table-ready photo books of our year to send to grandmas at Christmas.

The first one was really marveled at and appreciated.

Its size and effort and quality was unexpected, so maybe I should’ve expected the way every year brought a little less marvel and appreciation.

Obviously, I resented that.

Not only because the work never got easier with each year, but because it made me feel like the recipients had lost the point: To see their grandkids go from toddlers to young men, ready to take on — and take in — the world.

So I didn’t make one this year.

But I’m still going to make one. For me.

Because I still marvel and appreciate that.