Dear Friends and Family (the select few whom I trust to get my jokes),
Despite my fondness for the written word, and plenty of good material, I’ve yet in my life to write a Christmas letter. My reticence stems from the ones my parents always got from high school classmates trying to prove they were successful. Mikey is five and in 3rd grade this year. He has his drivers license and has taken over the family menu planning. Fifi, our wonderdog, was on Letterman demonstrating her exceptional talents in butt sniffing and hairball coughing. Bill Senior was elected the Luck Wisconsin vacuum salesman of the year for the 5th time running, and as a result we were able to take a 2nd honeymoon up to Hayward where we renewed our vows in the mouth of the big muskie at the fishing hall of fame…….

Here is my version:

Ariana is now 10 and in 5th grade. After a couple years of squinting and headaches, I finally got a clue and brought her to the eye doctor. He recommended a dog. Actually, she got glasses. She is still in Tae Kwon Do, which she loves (I think half the fun is what I call Tae Kwon Clothes) and just passed her green belt test. She is still in girl scouts and planning a hostile takeover of the cookie program. She is maturing by leaps and bounds, though she still has “pantrums” (tantrums in the morning when her pants don’t fit). She has lots of other stuff going on, but her favorite things are still writing books and plays and coordinating projects with her underlings. A recent such project involved each of them getting inside a garbage bag and crawling around the house en masse (and I have the pictures to prove it). Her goal in school this year was to get a Great Spartan award, an honor given to students who show academic excellence or outstanding community service. She can now rest on her laurels, as Doris the janitor nominated her and Lexi….for helping set up tables in the lunchroom.

Elijah is 8 (will be 9 in February) and is The Firstborn Son, the jewel in the family crown, the scion of a great donut empire. Or, he would be, if he’d brush his teeth and do his homework. He won’t , so for the time being he’s a normal 8 year old guy. He is in boy scouts (I think the rank this year is Tasmanian Devil or Sewer Rat, something like that; last year they were Wolves and quite nice). This year his den is into such badges as “How to Not Listen” and “How to Destroy Everything In Sight”. He joined his big sister in Tae Kwon Do and just earned his orange belt, of which he is very proud. He got a special gift from Gramma—a gun rack that belonged to my wonderful Grandpa who I hope he grows up to be like. He found a great way to use it; he is displaying his TKD belts on it. It will look very nice once he cleans his room and one can actually see it.

Ben is 7 and still a unique kind of guy. He is in chess club, challenge math (we may need a maternity test to be sure he is mine) and is a boy scout (a nice little wolf like Elijah was last year). Other than that, he is obsessed with Club Penguin (that online game thing where you turn yourself into a penguin and collect pets named Puffles). He worries a lot that his puffles have run away (“They ran away, I just KNOW it!”) as he is not allowed online enough to optimally care for them. I let him use Dad’s phone the other day (it’s a fancy pants thing that does everything but wash your dishes) and he laid on the couch with it and was playing a game. Then I checked on him and he had it hidden under his quilt. So I went and I said “what are you doing?” When no response was forthcoming, I took a peek, and sure enough he had figured out how to get into Club Penguin on the internet application on Dad’s phone. “Ben,” I said with great concern, “you have a problem.” To my surprise, he agreed. “I KNOW!” he retorted. “It’s not loading!”. He is also very creative, like his sister. He is creating a power point slide show of his cat, Blue, using photographs of her and adding captions. My favorite says “Thanks, but I eat bird”.

Wil is 5 and in his senior year of preschool at Rocori Kinder Connection. He’s having a great time this year and doing so well that he has determined he is in need of an office at home from which to continue his academic pursuits (practicing…”W-i-l-l-i-a-m”). I was fine with that idea, until he told me the ideal location for his studies is MY desk. I’m willing to share, but he planned to remove all of my things and put his own stuff there. That would mean crayons, glue, and construction paper, none of which I need for my own coursework. He also likes to make and deliver mail using Zac’s Cozy Coupe car. He would like a real fire truck for Christmas, please. He recently spent a weekend in Wisconsin with my parents and I most fittingly have dubbed that place Redneck School. He came home in workboots 3 sizes too big, a blaze orange hunting cap, tools hanging from his belt loops, button down shirt tucked in, and hands in pockets. He looks just like my dad. It’s OK so far, but if I start seeing buttcrack, it’s all over.

And as for Zac himself, he is 2. I think that is enough said, but I’ll add more for the sake of creativity. We call him Manic Muffin. The “Muffin” is the unfortunate term of endearment he was given at birth. The manic is because he is nuts. For example, last night we had a family movie night (quite rare, and to be treasured). I was unable to see the movie because he was determined to put (and keep ) a basket over my head. It doesn’t help that everyone else think it’s precious and calls him “baby”. Will he be 30 and still called baby—and trying to put baskets on my head?

Leo is doing great at age 7, although he is creeping into morbid obesity and Gramma says his breath smells like carp. The cats are happy and fluffy, bringing home frequent gifts of half-butchered field mice and the occasional poached bird. Last but not least in the pet department, early this month we brought home a very special guy named Casey.

Casey is a white boxer and he is deaf. I think Leo wants him dead, but the rest of us are enjoying him. I am personally learning a lot about how people feel when communicating with me—and why they throw stuff at me. He is clearly quite joyful with his new lot in life, gleefully bounding about, leaping like a porpoise over children, furniture, and parents. He knows about 12 signs so far—sit, stay, friend (he offers his paw to shake), kiss (then you get a wet one), water, run, outside, potty, bed, Daddy (and I believe that tells you whose dog he is), no, and play. He is tall and slim; by comparison Leo looks like a marble. I think I would be resentful too.

Thomas, our miniature donkey, is still shaggy and cute. He lives down the road on Aunt Lynn’s hobby farm where he enjoys walking audaciously underneath her horses and narrowly escaping the equine jaws of death as he does so.

Brian still thinks the Vikings are important and still doesn’t understand why I don’t. I laugh to think of the metamorphosis over the years. When I met him, all buff and young, he built his week around the Vikings, culminating with a Very Important Meeting with his friends to watch the game. The mornings of the game, he was not to be disturbed as he had some Very Important Preparations to do, to get in the right frame of mind so that he might be at his best to help the Vikings win. Now, he sits in his purple recliner that lists to the right, amidst Barbies and Bakugon and dogs and kids. To make matters worse, he’s not buff anymore, either—although I think he looks pretty good for being SO MUCH OLDER THAN ME.
And as for me, I continue to work at the VA in the acute psychiatric unit where I see lots of entertaining things that the HIPPAA law forbids me from sharing.

And so, from our very full house to yours, happy holidays!

Tracy