It’s that time of year again, uh, again.  You know that one. Where your life’s choices are mocked at the dinner table, your little brother wins the best child award for the 27th year in a row, and you spend a lot of quality time with reinforced lycra.

Or maybe that’s just me. . .

Last year, I wrote the first edition of Merry Fucking Christmas and managed to piss off my own family to the point of social media disownment, and this year, having learned my lesson, I’m going to um, well, to be quite frank,

Give zero fucks and do it again.

Because this is real life people, and telling any other story would be a half-truth. So, in the name of authenticity and good humor, I offer you:  

(STILL) NOT ANOTHER FUCKING CHRISTMAS LETTER

Dear Friends, Family, and People That Don’t Fit In Either Category.

Happy whatever-you’re-celebrating-this-month. Vodka, Gin, Red wine. Whatever floats your. . . spirits. Oh, and Happy all those other real things too. Really. Cheers to celebrating family, blessings, triumphs, heroes, saviors, endurance, and love.

Amen.

2015 was a big year for us. A shitstorm of magic hit our family square in the face, and we’re landing quite nicely on our asses, errrr feet. Here’s the current stats:

MADISON

This kid turned ten in August and passed the five foot mark shortly thereafter. To cope, I did a lot of yoga and deep breathing and positive self-talk. To celebrate, my mom and I took her to a Taylor Swift concert and got her floor seats. She screamed. I screamed. We all screamed for Bad Blood. 

She’s in fifth grade now, and all full of knowledge about useful things like the who’s who in the American Revolution, methods of long division, and parts of speech. If you’d like a sentence about the British Tea Party diagrammed and divided into equal story parts, she’s your girl.

Her art skills are on point, and I’m beginning to wonder about how I’ll show up in her stories when she’s a famous graphic novelist. She writes remarkably well, even on the table, also in secret notes. What I want to know, really, is who the fuck gave her a copy of Harriet the Spy and where can I find them, I mean, um how can I return the favor?

She started at a new school this fall and played her first season of volleyball. I never felt so proud as a mama. Also, never so afraid a ball was going to hit me in the face; I’ve assured her that at some point her limbs will catch up with the rest of her body, or vice versa.

Having made so many new friends and read so many helpful tween angst books, she’s upped her eye rolling game by adding in dramatic flops to the bed, foot stomping, door slamming, and screaming about all the things that are THE WORST. I’m still very confused, is homework the worst, or is it eating breakfast? No, it’s definitely getting out of bed. That’s the absolute fucking WORST.

Except for taking a shower. Or brushing your teeth. Or doing anything your mom said to do. Moms are really the worst.  

All that terrible mothering aside, I am constantly humbled by my sweet child; even when she’s back-talking me she’s got a musical and creative gift that’s been present since she was a baby. She hears just two lines to any song and she’s got the whole thing down, like forever. Like the entire damn car ride forever. It’s impressive.

Every time I pick her up from her Dad’s house I am taken aback by how strong and skilled and beautiful she is, and how very much she looks like a young woman and not a little girl. 

FUCK.

 

RORY

If you’d like to win Jeopardy this year, I’d suggest you make nice with this kid. Bring legos. Approach slowly. Come armed with puns and knock-knock jokes, and prepare to be outwitted at every turn.

This little fucker is so smart it’s embarrassing. No really. It is.

I have done more fact checking in conversation with him than I did for my Master’s Thesis. Even when he doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about, he says it in that voice, that condescending, know-it-all, I’m-smarter-than-you voice that makes it SOUND like he does. I do not understand where he learned it.

Shut up.

He is a total cuddle bug if he likes you (don’t worry, you’ll know) and won’t make eye contact if he doesn’t. In fact, I’m fairly certain he invented side eye. He uses it on me. Often. Especially when I ask him to find his shoes. . .

He wears camo on camo while designing his dress shops and writing newspapers, could spend an entire day building toy fortresses and going to war with the Force on his side, and loves to dance to hip hop but hates to admit it. 

He’s heading into his second season of baseball this Spring and I’m sincerely hoping he spends less time ignoring the coaches and announcing that he’s bored and more time actually, like, paying attention to the game. Maybe I should just teach him how to count stats in his head. . .

There’s a bit too much mic dropping around our house with this guy. He calls it like it is, and he doesn’t miss a beat.

Last week he asked why we don’t call Romel H2, as in, um, Second Husband. . .

See? I told you. Embarrassing. Like that.

He’s a cool fucking kid, and he’s going to grow up and do amazing shit someday. In the meantime, there’s a whole lot of awkwardness for Madison to document.

 

THE MAMA

I recovered from 2014 with a nine month stretch of severe overscheduling, which included teaching ten English classes at the college in one semester, up to ten yoga classes a week near, far, and in-between and wearing lulu as “office attire,” I made cold-pressed juice a part of my present and my future, traveled across the nation and the globe, and knocked shit off my 35×35 list like it was my day job.

In March I really pissed off my family by traveling across the world to South Africa and spent two weeks in service in and around Cape Town. It was the coolest fucking thing I have ever done in my entire life. I can’t wait to go again next year. Yes, for real.

Instead of staying home and buying a car with windows that work, I did two more Yoga Teacher Trainings, one of which took me out and back to Austin, Texas seven times over seven months. There, I met California’s alumni, half of New York City, a few Texans, and, discovered that some Whole Foods have bars in them.

Stay Weird Austin? No. Stay Fucking Awesome, Austin.

As a result of this extended adventure of myself, and with the support of the ancient wisdom I paid a modern day salary to receive, two really cool things happened.

The first is that my work lifelines aligned like a giant, magic, connect-the-dots picture that I made in fourth grade and lost in my twenties. I’m finally doing what I’m good at doing, and what feels good for me. Unlike last years jeans, this work fits me.

I’m leaving my educational career for good as of this December, and I’m going to just have one full time job, doing things I’m very good at with people who are very good at what they do. It’s so fucking good it’s disgusting. Or, sweet. Whatever.

I get to talk about chocolate online, in person, on the phone, on the internet, and to myself.

MMMMM. Chocolate.

I still do all the writing and all the teaching of all the yoga, but not as my 9 to 5 because it turns out things like stable paychecks are good for your health, and I am all about that health. Ask my husband, he’s doing it too. Fucking copycat.

Oh, yeah. About that- if you didn’t catch that earlier, I have one of those again, a husband.

We eloped on our lunch break on a Thursday in October and then I brought my hot, young(er than me), Caribbean American husband to Thanksgiving dinner last month to meet my Dad. And my brother. And my hometown. Lucky for me, he’s smart-as-fuck, eye-rollingly altruistic, and good at basically everything, so they eventually stopped being mad, at him. . .

And you thought your Thanksgiving was awkward. #IWIN.

 

ROMEL

Okay, so I’m not going to be one of those wives who writes shit for her husband, doesn’t give him a voice, tells him what to say, and do, and when and where he can go and with whom and at what time. He’s a grown ass man, and he gets to do that for his damn self.

I will, however, say this—He’s fucking amazing.

He’s a skilled salesman, an incredible yoga teacher, a beautiful writer, a creative graphic designer and a tremendous asset to our community. He’s loving, he’s kind, he’s helpful, he laughs at our bad jokes, doesn’t wear judgy pants when I get yelly on Monday mornings, and helps me tuck the kids into bed at night with just as much love for them as if they were his own.

And the kids? They fucking love him. From the first time they met him, they were as hooked as I was. When you know, you know. And we know. All the things.

He volunteers for all kinds of shit, is a Global Shaper, has already served on Boards of Directors for things (yes, plural) and I’m pretty certain he’s going to be the next, next Mayor (2020 maybe?).

He’s teaching me more about politics, economics and inequality than I never knew I didn’t, um, know.

Did I mention he’s ridiculously smart? He even went to a fancy pants Liberal Arts college in Massachusetts and got like a double major and a double minor, or something disgusting like that. I stopped listening somewhere around the third thing and just declared him WAY FUCKING SMARTER THAN ME. Ask him and he’ll deny it though, and say some crap about all the ways we teach each other and that “softness always wins,” and that he “doesn’t know” but is “willing to learn.”

BARF.

So, in sum, he kicks ass, and this time, I really do win.

 

So, to you all, we want you to know we’re happy. We’re messy, we’re ridiculous, we’re doing things our way, and we’re really, fucking, happy. We hope you are too.

Merry, Happy, All-The-Things.

Peace.

 

*Photo credit- Chantel Elder, Eleakis&Elder Photography

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