An Honest Holiday Letter, 2022
Greetings from California! If you’re keeping track, yes that’s three states of residence in the last three years. No, it’s not adventurous, exciting or anything other than stressful to make that many moves. Yes, we’re staying put this time. I’ve painted four rooms and a stairwell with the boldest, most biased colors known to man so there’s no turning back now.
We’re back in the vicinity of our families and Providence couldn’t be happier. Her idea of a perfect birthday this year was to gather grandparents and uncles from both sides of the family to sit around the dinner table together. She is an eleven-year-old Clark Griswold, craving good old-fashioned family fun at any cost. If it were up to her we’d have weekly dinners with all the grandparents or just live happily ever after on a compound. (She has yet to understand the meaning of the word boundaries.) Prov is now in the full throes of puberty and “tweenage” adolescence. Her moods and her opinions are getting stronger by the minute. The simplest request can drive her to tears or lock her in the bathroom for hours on end. Her bedroom is a breeding ground for creativity and mold. I’m certain things are growing under the mountains of laundry and garbage (sorry, I mean “art supplies”) she’s hoarding. Where she sees possibility, I see a landfill in the making. It takes an immense amount of courage and self-control for me to cross the threshold and quite frankly, I’d like a medal just for making the effort. But for all the growing up and filling out Providence has done this year, her walls are still canvased with drawings of birds and cheetahs, not Teen Beat posters (is that still a thing?). She has zero interest in social media, trending bands, or anything other than her art and her books. I am grateful for the innocence and naivety that remain more prevalent than the chip on her shoulder.
This year Justice has achieved a mastery of mischief most boys could only dream of. He sneaks treats at breakfast, hides candy under his pillow, shaves off his eyebrows, and climbs the shelves in our closet to reach the piggy bank we confiscated. If ever I find a random object in the freezer, a clogged toilet, notice a suspicious silence, or a missing pair of scissors, he is the first person I interrogate with just one question: BUT WHY? I find the fullness of his bathroom hand soap disturbing. We’re at a stalemate when it comes to personal hygiene in general; I prioritize thoroughness while he shoots for “efficiency.” For example, in an attempt to save both time and electricity, he tried to use the toilet in the dark. Let’s just say he missed his mark by a mile. (Jesus come quickly.) Justice is convinced he knows how to break dance and will prove it at every opportunity, (even if that opportunity presents itself in the middle of Target). He wakes up singing and goes to sleep laughing no matter how many meltdowns he’s had in between. His repertoire of mean, spiteful, dramatic phrases almost perfectly offsets his displays of love, affection, and service. Life is all about balance, after all.
Zach finds humor in most of Justice’s antics. Where I expect to be met with empathy I am instead met with stifled laughter. He patiently pours my wine while I voice unrealistic requests like, “I just wish he’d learn to flush without needing a reminder.” I think it’s nostalgic for Zach or something. Growing up in a house of all brothers he’s conducted his fair share of mischief. Justice sending me passive-aggressive notes in the form of paper airplanes doesn’t hold a candle to the times Zach’s parents had to call poison control or the fire department on account of the stunts he pulled. That’s probably why he will forever be dubbed “the fun one” in our house. But our kids are at the age in which they’ve drawn a fine line between fun and embarrassing and Zach walks the tightrope daily. He has transitioned back into ministry life rather seamlessly after a half-year break. I imagine it has partly to do with all the rest and medication and partly to do with the abundance of leadership books he reads. The man reads NOTHING else. I can’t imagine how many unique things there are to say about healthy leadership, but after reading seven hundred thirty-two perspectives I’m annoyed that Zach isn’t on the Forbes List.
My life is full as ever: full-time wife, mama, dog mama, blogger, student, and writer. As these are all roles I love, my heart is brimming, (but so is my coffee cup). I’ve spent most of my holiday break thus far making piles of Amazon boxes for my husband to break down (because this is his favorite way to love and serve our marriage). I am also tackling all the house projects nobody cares about but me. Come January I will complain about how quickly the time went and how little “me time” I had. After refusing to sit still for two weeks I will claim I have no margin for self-care. THIS IS HOW I THRIVE. I’ve reached the halfway mark in completing my Bachelor’s Degree in English and Creative Writing. I’ve transitioned from part-time to full-time because I like the threat of cracking under pressure. Barring a complete and total breakdown, I will be graduating in late August.
We brought home an English Bulldog puppy in March, (an early 40th birthday gift from my parents). She is the culmination of all my hopes and dreams for a bulldog since I was a girl. English Bulldogs are notoriously lazy; they lack any stamina or perseverance. They are stubborn, heavy sleepers, and have a side-eye that judges your very soul. They are needy, opinionated, and irritable. English Bulldogs also have a short life span, so an owner's commitment level is low. By my standards, they are the perfect dog. We named our puppy Sugar, but she also answers to things like Bratwurst, Potato, Sausage, Chunkers, etc. I’m sure she’ll blame me for her inevitable identity crisis in therapy one day, (and then send me the bill). Lest I start to grieve the season of parenting toddlers, Sugar is constantly whining at me for attention and/or snacks and waits for me outside the bathroom, as if conducting my private business triggers her separation anxiety. At her last vet visit, she was told she needs to drop seven pounds. Her days of puppaccinos, peanut butter, and store-bought treats ended abruptly. She sulked the whole way home. (I did too because I knew this meant I’d have to be more intentional about exercising her every day, and I’m not sure which one of us hates cardio more.) Sugar has since spiraled into fits of “hangry-ness.” She lashes out irrationally at all of us over the slightest move or noise. I try to distract her with toys or healthy treats like blueberries and carrots, but her hunger is insatiable. We’re all just hanging on by a thread until her weight loss journey is over next spring. Keep us in your prayers. Yes, I realize my paragraph about the dog is longer than any of the paragraphs about my human family. I’m not even sorry. Sugar has been a bright spot in an otherwise turbulent year for our family. She is our honorary therapy dog. (Also, she stared intensely over my keyboard while I was typing this and I felt obligated to keep writing until she was satisfied.)
Now please excuse me while I go scrape dried candy cane residue off my kitchen table, dig a gift bow out of Sugar’s mouth, and relocate the Christmas gifts for the third time this week because kids and canines are relentless treasure hunters. If anyone needs me later I’ll be hunkered down in an undisclosed location creating an 18-link long paper chain marking the days until my kids go back to school. Please pray to God, all the angels, and Joanna Gaines for my sanity.
With love and cheer,
Anne and family
Disclaimer: This picture bears no resemblance to our actual lives
Justice (7), Anne (40 OK?!), Zach (42 but can still wear the same sweater he wore when he was 30), Providence (11), Sugar (1 and is as uncomfortable in her harness as she looks)