Merry Christmas!

Every year, my super talented hubby writes our Christmas letter. This year, a newer member of the family took over the honors...with a little help from his Daddy. So, I bring you our family letter for 2008. Merry Christmas!




Merry Christmas, People,

I arrived early – three weeks early, they tell me. There was a lot of hullabaloo and apple polishing in the hospital, but I found out later it wasn’t for me. It was for the Jayhawks who had just prevailed in a big game. It seems as though I interrupted what was a spirited second half of a basketball game. I was nothing more than a post-game footnote. To make matters worse, my folks were shoddily prepared for my arrival; no car seat, no diapers, no nothin’ – another stick in the eye. I had a bit of a wobbly start, if you ask me. But my Dad tells me, “Don’t fret, son. At least you were born in a red state.”

I am relaxing in my quarters now. As I compose this from my crib, I am gazing up at camouflage netting hanging from my ceiling, camouflage walls, camouflage blankets. My room is dimly lit. Dad tells me it is like a war bunker, whatever that means. All my stuff is brown and green. Even the garb I am wearing. This is really alarming...is everyone’s home like this?

Only six months old and I have traveled more than Bob Hope. SuperMom has lugged me around to seven states and one ocean. Dad usually stays at home. He is already secretly advising me, ala John Madden, about air travel. He says things like “Man was not meant to fly,” and “Watch out for those left coast loonies,” whatever that means.

Sunday afternoons at my house are jam-packed with cheap entertainment. I am learning about Chiefs football. I park myself between SuperMom and Dad and watch them hurl objects at the television while shouting things like “Tackle him! Tackle him!” and “Catch the ball, you loser!” The furry schnauzers run for cover. Outstanding! Dad usually stalks from the room before the game is over, but SuperMom and I sit ‘til the bitter end.

My birth certificate reads ‘xxxxxxx,’ but nobody calls me that. They call me ‘Little Major’ or ‘Major’ or ‘Little Buddy’ or ‘Buddy’. Dad sometimes refers to me as ‘Major Minor’ or ‘The Offspring.’ At this point I will answer to just about anything – I am one befuddled baby.

I have recently learned how to growl. Like a bear. SuperMom and Dad carry me around in the library where I randomly growl at people. Dad says I must have a sixth sense – I only growl at liberals.

Lest I forget what I look like, SuperMom and Dad have installed hundreds of photos of me throughout the house. I am photographed more than Brad Pitt. Snapshots everywhere! Oh well, it worked for the Ayatollah....

People tell me I look like my Dad. Fortunately, he is already warning me of my bleak future. “Get ready for a lifetime of mockery and harassment,” he says. But what does he know? Seven months old and I already have more of a mane than him. Besides, SuperMom is always telling me I am the cutest baby in the county.


Signing off now,

Lil Major