If Holiday Newsletters Told the Truth
4 mins read

If Holiday Newsletters Told the Truth

Naturally, many of you hate holiday newsletters.

I do, too. That doesn’t stop me from writing my own.  Family life once again proves to be irresistible fodder.

Happy holidays, everyone.

2012 marked the year all three of my children rose up and rebelled against traditional, interfamilial, spoken word communication. We have transitioned 100% to texting, even when all gathered together in the same room. We therefore thought it fitting to share 2012’s most meaningful family texts.

  • I am going to kill her.
  • Can I have six friends spend the night tonight?  Dad says it is ok.
  • Nice booty, fool.
  • My tooth fell out at lunch today.
  • What is your credit card number?
  • Can you pick us up in 5?
  • Do not tell Dad: I just dropped my phone in the toilet and it is working for texts but not calls so don’t call me.


One of the highlights of the year for me, ranking just below seeing all my old boyfriends at my 25th college reunion, was the unearthing of 22 not-yet-viewed reruns of Law & Order (Season 3; Chris Noth’s debut!). I handed in my surrogacy book (twice) and did a fervent TEDx talk, From the Ivy League to a Gun at My Head, which you can view repeatedly and send to all your Facebook and Twitter friends (immediately).

We must also honor 2012 as:


Following an idyllic August stroll in the swampy, tick-infested woods surrounding East Hampton’s Duck Pond, this nasty illness caused DH weeks of muscle spasms, fever, aching joints, exhaustion, and 15 circular rashes the size of cocktail coasters, turning him into a shuffling, ravaged apparition straight out of a bad Vincent Price movie. Four prestigious docs misdiagnosed the scourge. DH missed weeks of work, and ultimately had to inject himself with i.v. antibiotics for 30 days. Eeeewww!

Amidst the Great Lyme Crisis and my weeks of obsessive TED-speech prep, my 15-year-old son’s feline sidekick Spike broke his hip walking down the stairs.  Repairing the broken joint was impossible, the vet explained. Spike endured a two-hour surgery, which cost 20 times his adoption fee, followed by weeks wearing an attractive plastic cone strangling his neck, and a shave job that made him resemble a psychotic toy poodle. After which the vet clarified that cats’ broken hips usually heal themselves if left untreated.

This newsletter would not be complete without our usual immodest commentary on our kids’ athletic prowess. Our 10-year-old daughter bounces between soccer, basketball, bareback equestrian events and volleyball. She is pursuing a newfound passion to qualify for the 2016 U.S. Olympics gymnastics team. This may prove challenging, since 10 is late to start Olympic training and she is already taller than Gabby Douglas, but she has mastered an impressive outdoor trampoline routine which we all have seen over 1,000 times, including several times during Hurricane Sandy.

Our 14-year-old daughter continues her basketball and volleyball journeys. She added softball to her repertoire, quickly discovering that she, like many 7th and 8th grade girls, cannot pitch, hit or throw. Her crafty coach wisely spotted what any 13-year-old girl can do well: steal.  The team built an undefeated season on stolen bases, which shocked their genteel opponents and made for bizarrely enjoyable spectatorship; DH and I didn’t miss a single game.

Our first-born son, who now towers over his dad, debuted at several collegiate basketball camps. After a string of lackluster, low-scoring games, he unleashed five three-pointers in three minutes during the Harvard finals, 20 feet from Coach Amaker’s sneakers.  In a JV nail-biter a few days ago, with 0.4 seconds to go until halftime, he launched (and made) a basket from the opposing team’s foul line.  We expect ESPN to be calling soon.  Despite these accomplishments, his 2012 slamdunk was bonding with LMFAO’s Redfoo (“I’m Sexy and I Know It”) in the stands at the U.S. Open.


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