‘Twas the night before this Christmas letter

and all through the house,

All the Anthonys were sleeping

except me, I was matching socks.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that -- wait, where the fuck are the stockings?

RYAN?

WHERE DID THE BOYS PUT THE STOCKINGS?

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

while visions of Nintendo Switches that they will absolutely not be getting for Christmas danced in their heads,

and Mama with her secret bedtime candy, and Daddy with his bite guard,

had just settled down to fall asleep in front of a TV show with swears,

when inside my mind there arose such a clatter,

I was like FUCK I was going to do a Christmas letter this year!

Oh my God, it’s already December 9!

What time is it?

It’s already 10:30?

Balls.

Away to the laptop I flew like a flash,

clicked open a Google doc and turned on a murder podcast.

The moon on the breast of the newfallen snow…

was a line for which I had no ideas. Just… a total blank on that one.

When what to my wondering mind should appear

but the idea to phone this thing in with a Night Before Christmas parody!

Just a little old poem so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment I’d be in bed by midnight.

So here’s what’s new with us if you care:

Ryan’s been traveling a lot for work this year,

which at first I didn’t like but now as soon as he leaves

I sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed

and I sleep WELL, y’all.

More rapid than eagles weekday mornings devolve.

I whistle and shout and I call “NO DRAWING ON YOUR BROTHER!”

“Now sit down! Now eat food!

Now put on your clothing!

On undies! On t-shirt! On pants, shoes, and jacket!

To the door of the car!

I said to YOUR door, Chicken!

Now clip yourself, clip yourself, clip yourself in!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

So I stagger around the car, ignoring the muffled sounds of my children fighting over the armrest inside.

Then off to school dropoff our family does shoo

with a car full of dirty socks and empty applesauce pouches, too.

Chicken’s in first grade, I hear he’s doing well.

Even if he literally never eats the protein I pack in his lunch.

Literally. Literally it doesn’t even matter if it’s yogurt,

turkey, beans and rice, chicken, tofu -

whatever I pack nestled into an ice pack is coming home room-temp and funky.

He’s doing gymnastics, and I’m not gonna lie,

I’m pretty jealous of his abs right now.

He also does chess club which might have been a mistake

Why did I teach him game theory?

I’m also thinking about swim lessons

but what if he keeps getting stronger…

Now Buster, how he twinkles! His dimples, how merry!

He growls like a pirate and turns every object into a murder weapon!

Did you know that a rain boot could be an ice axe?

Chicken knows! Because I found Buster standing over him, rain boot raised in pre-murder, screaming

RUSSELL WILSON

which is his new battle cry.

He has a broad face and wants his own puppy,

a Dalmation named Bella.

But there’s just no way I can keep another mammal alive right now.

Ryan’s chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf.

LOL, JK, my man’s a tall drink of brick shit house.

In fact, one date night we stayed in and baked an oven pizza

but the oil dripped in the oven and the smoke set off the fire alarm,

so I threw open the sliding doors and Ryan grabbed a cookie sheet

and tried to wave the smoke out the window

but instead smacked the ceiling sconce

which fell first onto his neck and then to the floor

where it shattered.

He’s tall, is what I’m saying.

He tells me he’s fly fishing but sometimes I wonder

if he doesn’t just sit all alone in his car

and think about nothing, nothing at all,

and maybe eat a beef jerky.

And as for myself, I am so hashtagblessed,

Not only in health, family, friendship, love and the rest,

But I also got a cute haircut recently,

and most importantly this summer

a kayak guide with veiny muscular forearms told me I was a good mom.

I’m lucky to do what I love for my work,

which should mean I’ll never work a day in my life

but really it means I have no boundaries

so I feel guilty whenever I match socks because Beyonce and Ruth Bader Ginsburg did not lean in so I could match socks. Get to work, lady!

But then I feel guilty when my children have no socks because I bet Beyonce and Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s moms always matched their socks, which is why they were able to lean in. Why are you so selfish, Katie?

It occurs to me now as I read this whole lot

that while each word is true, I also forgot:

my family is messy and scruffy and wild.

Still can’t get a protein inside of my child.

I’m grumpy and sorry,

Ryan’s still very tall.

And I would change nothing.

Not one thing at all.

So from our bunch of banshees to your circus of monkeys,

from our gaggle of geese to your surfeit of skunkies,

from our mob of boxing kangaroos to your…

tidy, well-behaved human mammal family (?!?!)

Happy holiday, merry thing, jolly doo-dad, whatever.

Remember this season will not last forever.

Now hear me exclaim because that’s what she said:

It’s so hard, but I love it!

Now let’s go to bed.

If you liked this post, you might also like 10 Games My Children Played in Line to Meet Santa Claus!

If you liked this one as much as a holiday spice flat white (It’s Christmas in a cup!) my tip jars are at Paypal and Patreon. I keep this blog ad-free so it’s not a screaming nightmare to navigate, and you never have to wonder if I praised the veiny muscular forearms of the kayak guide because I’m getting a four-cent kickback per Google search of “veiny muscular forearms (kayak)".”

I DIDN’T. They were JUST THAT GOOD.

Anyway, that’s why 5 or 10 bucks from you makes a huge difference in my work here.