Holy fuck you guys. It’s fucking Christmas time all fucking ready.

Can you fucking believe that?

OH MY GOD IT FEELS GOOD TO SAY FUCK so much again.

If you kindly follow my blog you may have noticed I haven’t written anything since… June-ish or so. I promise you it’s not because I didn’t have anything to say. I have ALL THE THINGS TO SAY. It’s because I’ve been up to my MOTHER FUCKING EYEBALLS in parenting, work, other work, some other work, and some more work after that.

Sigh. More on that later.

Anyway. It’s December. And in December I do things — 12 Days of Giving. Excessive cursing.  A lot of fucking gift wrapping. But also- I write moderately offensive but absolutely hysterical holiday letters (like this one) to break up the flooding of fake shit you get from everyone else, I mean, if your mailbox fills up with matching outfits like mine does.

Anyhoo….

Here you go. Some writing, from me, in December. With liberal stylistic use of periods. Because I like them. And I can. So there.

So. Enough with the introductions. Here ya go.

MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS: THE FOURTH EPISODE

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

If we know you IRL and we haven’t seen you in person lately, ummmmm, heyyyyyy.  Or, heh, as our 12 year old would say.

So, we did this crazy thing called buying a business while both working full time and having a baby and parenting two big kids and we’ve been living in a time vacuum since last October or so. I often forget what year it is. 2020? 2018?

HOW MANY YEARS JUST HAPPENED TODAY?

Stupid. We are stupid. Or, rather, I am. Was. Am. Sometimes can be. And pushy. Because I’m fairly certain my husband said the timing wasn’t great for either or both of these things and I said “but we can make it work!” I’m also fairly certain he was right and I was wrong but…

Here we are anyway, friends.

Working full time. Baby. Big kids. Business. No sleep. Lots of carbs. Ironically little yoga.

So… lemme catch you up to speed then.

ETHAN

We need to get this kid on television, or a magazine cover, maybe an album label, DEFINITELY on a diaper commercial because these thighs…

OMG.

Don’t you just want to slather him with kisses and never put him down? Well, I do. It’s driving our daycare provider a little bit batshit because um, he wants up all the time but what can I say- it’s my last baby and I’m a baby-wearer and our life moves at fucking light speed and keeping him on my person all the time is how we all survive, okay?

Geez.

Anyway. Our little babe is 9 months old and trying hard AF to do the things his siblings do. He’s never met a carb he doesn’t like, gets into everything you didn’t see and a few of the things you did, and is all the cliches you think of when you think about cute babies. If you think about cute babies at all, that is.

No, he does not sleep: a) through the night, b) in his own bed c) very much.  And yes, we are so tired it’s confusing to us how we are still alive but,

P.S. – if you come over don’t even think for a second he’s going to let you hold him because you are not me and everyone who is not me, mayyyyyybe Daddy and probably big brother or sister gets screamed at, loudly, and with a full body thrashing.

You’ve been warned.

RORY

This kid. I mean, there are smart kids, and every parent thinks their child is a genius but. Um. Well, the short answer would be that we use google a lot to look shit up to see if he is actually right. The long answer would involve testing and references to the Big Bang Theory and really what you need to know is that he knows exactly too much about most things but still not even kind of enough about timing and delivery and what a filter is. Also that he is an excellent bullshitter. I mean, really, really, really good.

#ohrory

He’s hysterically funny, so easy to love, incredibly difficult to parent and still looks at me with these moony eyes and even though he is nine I just want him to keep wanting to hold my hand. Also to stop being such a little shit, but you know… karma.

MADISON

My mini-me is totally not so mini anymore. She’s twelve but like 5’7” or some shit, wearing clothes I wore just before I got pregnant with Ethan (yes, really) and towers over her friends just like I did in Middle School and basically all of my life after that. She probably grew another inch in her sleep tonight and the pants I bought her last fucking week already don’t fit.

Fuck. Parenting is fucking expensive.

She eats like a teenager, throws clothes on the floor like a teenager, rolls her eyes like a teenager…. It’s like she’s almost a teenager or something.

NOOOOOOOOOOOO.

She is seriously the kindest kid ever. Like, THE kindest. Except/and/but, she is becoming more and more brazen in her quest for independence via increasingly smart-assey-smart-assiness.  Still though, she’s pretty cool to hang out with a good amount of the time so I’m banking on the fact that her snark can continue to be refined into wit and so long as I keep reminding us both to let kindness win, everything is going to turn up roses in the end.

Do not ask me about high school, or boys, or other teenage shit. I refuse to talk about this in public, yet, please. She and I are talking about it and that’s as far as we need to go right now. K thanks.

ROMEL

My sweet husband is finally in the same decade as me, for another few years anyway. Phew. We celebrated his milestone last April wearing the dark circles only a newborn can bring, and with some classy thing called a chambong because parents don’t get to enjoy anything slowly, especially not sparkling wine.

He continues to do cool stuff for work and just moved over to the political side of things in his office and I think that means he’s a lobbyist but I actually have so many pieces of information to retain in my brain at one time that I can barely remember what floor his office is on so… don’t hold me to that.

He’s still teaching yoga and helping me manage the studio and in his excessive amounts of spare time he helps out communities and people who need it . He’s my best friend. He puts up with my over-analysis of most all things, fixes my technology when my yelling at it doesn’t work and regularly checks my ego. Also, he puts the dirty laundry in the same basket as the clean laundry and that is the grossest thing ever but I am probably maybe overreacting.

See above, re: putting up with me….

ME, MICHELLE

Well, the work life I had envisioned of running the studio, keeping up a full client load of freelance work, and writing for enjoyment and publication didn’t um, work so great for very long because that baby of ours is not a fan of the sleeping and being set down bit, nor does he give a single fuck about my deadlines so….

No more independent contractor life for me, right now. This mama needs that diaper money, mmkay?

Despite my trying to quit teaching like four or thirteen times in the last six years, I always seem to find myself right back in a classroom again. It’s like I’m good at it or something. Like, I’m just predispositioned to be a teacher. Like, I’m just supposed to do this.

So fine.

On the weekends and evenings  I’m managing the studio and teaching some yoga classes, and during the day time I’m teaching at an Elementary School again. It’s actually going pretty well.  I like my job and I love my students like they were my actual children and they are learning and growing and it’s all fairies and rainbows and talking unicorns except for the days when it’s not because this is real life and I have 25 of those little dumplings to lead and teaching is crazy hard work that I’m lucky as fuck to get to do.

We moved again, to a quirky old house just a few minutes from the studio and it makes my heart so happy sometimes I cry a little about it. Then again, I’m also working 12-14 hour days seven days a week, breastfeeding, and I get about 6 hours of broken sleep a night so lots of things make me cry.

Shut up. I don’t want to hear about it. I’m aware that I’m at critical mass right now. I got it.

No really, I got it. I start a 300 hour Yoga Teacher Training this week and I’m crazy excited to dive into the work to get back to myself and light a new flame in a new candle to start a new, more sustainable, manageable, but still life altering, fire within.

Welp. That’s about enough I suppose. We are tired. We are learning. We are growing. We are finding our new happy. And, we love you.

Happy holidays. Happy un-holidays. Happy everything. Happy, life.