Plucky Letters to US soldiers in Iraq

December 24, 2003


Dear 101st Airborne Heroes,

It’s Christmas Eve! Santa is on his way! I heard on the radio that Santa is using a Blackhawk helicopter instead of the sleigh this year, just to show whose side he’s on. I’d thought it was obvious- the man is dressed in red & white and has twinkling blue eyes. He speaks English and gives stuff away for free to people who don’t even deserve it. He might be a bleeding-heart liberal, but he’s definitely an American. (I suspect Mrs. Claus is a conservative Republican. Somebody’s paying all those bills Santa racks up every year.)

My husband's gigantic penis was delivered today. Actually, it’s a 55” Mitsubishi TV set, but I think there’s a certain phallic ego thing involved. Sadly, he was not here to witness its insertion into the womb of our "Media Room."
My friend Ann called to tell me her husband, Clint, has a bigger penis than Rudy. Clint purchased a 57” Hitachi a few hours after Rudy bought the Mitsubishi. Undaunted, Rudy will remind Clint that we have cable broad band for our computer network and they still have DSL. (Ann & I find the constant competition between our husbands and their tech junk rather comic.)

So now the “Media Room” is nearly complete. Dylan and I think it's ridiculous to call a basement family room a "Media Room," so we have begun to call the former family room “The Lobby.” We pronounce it in an affected tone, as in,
“I think I’ll take my afternoon coffee in The Lobby today.” We both find this hilarious, but nobody else understands our humor. We don't care; we know we are funny as hell. Besides, it looks like a hotel lobby- there’s a fireplace at the end of the room and two couches facing each other across a big rug. I’m thinking of having Carpenter Josh install a check-in counter and a bunch of key pegs.


My elegant Christmas Eve dinner party has been postponed until Saturday due to the plague that has ravaged our frail family. Rob had a very bad case of the flu last week. Young Dylan got it next, and is just today registering a quasi-normal temperature. Last night he was finally down to 98.8!! I was oddly proud, as if he worked very hard to achieve a near-normal temperature.

He asked only if that meant I would refrain from waking him up several times during the night to take his temp yet again. I promised I would let him sleep.
I thought about rigging up some sort of remote thermometer to keep me apprised of his body temp throughout the night. I think this would be a very useful device- one of those killer app inventions that could make me an instant millionaire if I can figure out how to work it. Kind of like a baby monitor, only it will relay all vital signs to the parental bedside. I could market it under the brand name "Home Intensive Care Unit." Worried mothers the world over would pay big bucks for such a device, don't you think?

Despite Dylan’s miraculous recovery, my sister refuses to bring her children anywhere near us until the weekend. By then she figures we’ll all either die or become germ-free. I can’t say that I blame her- it’s a bad flu and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to see her skulking around outside putting quarantine signs and crime scene tape across our front door.

Thus, our entire family will gather for Christmas Eve dinner on Saturday, Dec 27. You are all invited, but I must warn you that it never goes as I envision. I work my butt off to make sure the house is perfectly clean and decorated in a festive holiday manner. I will make extra room in the coat closet, and set a beautiful dining table using my best dishes, crystal, and cutlery. I will keep the kitchen as neat and well-organized as possible while cooking. I’ll wear my sparkly red Christmas sweater, just because Rudy and Rob find it hideous. Candles will glow throughout the house, a fire will crackle merrily in the fireplace, and I’ll have Christmas carols playing softly in the background.

In my fantasy, this will be the year the family will gather in a civilized manner to enjoy polite conversation and warm rapport. I will envision the adults sitting in the living room sharing a cup of eggnog while the children gather ‘round the Christmas tree in hushed awe. I will get all misty-eyed just thinking about it.
Then our family members will begin to arrive and wreck everything.

Within 15 minutes utter chaos will ensue. My sister’s kids will drop their coats on the floor and kick off their shoes in the middle of the front hall. My sister’s purse will somehow end up on the floor in the middle of a room. (I don’t know why this happens, but it always does.) My mother will admire the dining room table, but everyone else will move things around and mess up the artistic display. My dad will take up residence in a corner of the kitchen and begin giving a political speech while simultaneously eating everything in sight. Someone will turn on the TV, adjust the volume to LOUD, and then wander off, leaving it on and unwatched. My brother in law will roam the house on tip-toe, craning his neck to inspect our home for cobwebs. (He does this inspection every time he comes over and thinks I can’t tell what he’s up to.) There will be wrapping paper strewn from one end of the house to the other, decorations will hang in tatters, the kids will be fighting, and my mother in law will surely weep with longing for Mexico. All of this will happen before we even sit down to dinner.

This year I’m not even going to assign myself a place setting. There’s no point, since I’ll spend the entire meal running back and forth from the kitchen. This happens at every holiday dinner party no matter how well I plan. This year I shall be pragmatic. I shall don my stupid holiday apron and serve & clear, serve & clear. I’ll set a Chinet plate and a tippy cup for myself at the kids’ table and enjoy a nice chat with the little ones. Rob can have my place at the big table- he’s the guest of honor this year anyway. (Military veterans will ALWAYS have a place at the big table in our house, and don’t you guys forget it!)

Much Love,
--An Army Mom