WRITER'S NOTE: The second paragraph of this won't make sense unless you know that my mom's name is Sharon.  She works as a Special Education teacher in an elementary school.  

Dear family and mom’s friends,

Let us celebrate in joy the holidays by taking a moment to observe the sanctity of our nondenominational holiday shrubs while I insert an informative disclaimer for the contents of this letter:  I am in no way, shape, or form responsible for anything said here.  In fact, I’m fairly sure that I heard somewhere that we are products of both our genetics and our environments purely.  Therefore, everything I say is my parents’ fault for birthing and raising me, respectively.  Even the things I say to mock them.  Those hurtful words are small parts of themselves they instilled inside me, all the parts that hate themselves for not taking that free laptop deal offered by that most helpful pop-up ad, losing the ’84 pageant to that awful Shelia Jenkins woman, or over-nuking my leftover ground beef.  Now that I can’t be sued, on to the headings!!!

School
As you’re probably aware, all three of the Farrell children are victims of the education system.  However, while Sharon is still in elementary school and I in high school, Patrick has become a collegiate, enjoying the pleasures of a lunch served up not by bored-looking lunch ladies in an overcrowded cafeteria, but by bored-looking high school and college students just like him at McDonald’s.  And while Sharon insists that this has been a boring year, I am proud to report that she’s adapted very well to the fourth-grade special education curriculum and has befriended many of her classmates.  Moving on to the worst four years of everyone’s life, I am currently plowing through AP US History, a course that is not just one, but two college classes in one.  Though when I will ever need to apply such tidbits as George Washington’s weight, the validity behind the rumors that Jefferson had an illegitimate child, and the fact that an entire chapter of Thoreau’s Walden is about ants is beyond me.  Even better is my Driver’s Education course, where we recently learned the common-sense definition of the ‘steering wheel’.  Don’t you feel safer already?

Family Life
Part One—THE ESTROGEN PARTY:  Despite my joy at inheriting my father’s invincible metabolism, I’m unhappy to report that I may have also been given my mother’s immune system.  As a result, my female care unit and I have been bonding gleefully over such outings as mother-daughter-blood-tests and dually scheduled appointments and vaccinations.  Gee, thanks, Darwin.
Part Two—THE MENFOLK:  Despite previous statements, Dad has certainly done many home improvements lately.  Do you have any idea how many non-halogen recessed lights can go out at once?  And I for one consider the making of delicious cheeseburgers to a home improvement in the spiritual sense.  In addition, Patrick and Dad have actually been forced to bond over many a box-lifting or simple fixing job.  Hooray for genetic superiority!

The Election
(Due to the controversy that ultimately follows politics, I am going to refer to parties and candidates in terms of Ponies vs. Marshmallows.) This year was full of tensions in our lovely domain, as the parents sat with bated breath to see which side of the tree Patrick, as a theoretical acorn, would fall.  Mom, supporting the Ponies, hoped her son would help to (cough) change the balance of power, while Dad, though normally in favor of the Marshmallows, pondered hopelessly, not wanting to (cough) conserve the current standings of the nation, but not quite up for the Pony agenda.  But alas, it was Mom (and I, but sadly, at the age of 15, my political opinions are only heard on Facebook) who was victorious:  Patrick registered and voted as a Pony, and the nation was also tired of Marshmallowian policies!

When I was Your Age, Pluto Was a Planet!
As the years go by with increasing speed and momentum, Seniority has begun to darken our doorstep.  It has stolen Patrick from me during the hours of 7:30 to 3, Dad’s eyesight, Mom’s memory, and Tucker’s brain.  Yes, Tucker.  Mom was definitely understating the amount of senior moments he’s had.  The poor creature has run smack into (in no particular order): one garage door, two curbs, the back of the car (twice), one bass guitar case, the shins of every person he has ever met, the garage door (numerous times) and, most memorably, one swimming pool.  He also has a mindless playtime routine, entailing him throwing his squeaky hedgehog and rainbow caterpillar across the room, sometimes to hit glass doors or get stuck in the baker’s rack.  When not doing any of this, he is sleeping, occasionally kicking his feet or squeaking in the midst of a puppy dream.  

Before I resign to my piano, a closing note:  Though this typically a positive time of year, circumstances for others are not as jolly.  Each year, thousands of holiday goods are perished at the hands of a faulty organization system.  If you or someone you know has failed to make a clear distinction between their sugar and salt, please, offer your support.  Think of the poor gingerbread man who finds out that his iced smiling face is a lie; he will not consumed by you at all and will be instead left to be covered in mold, or thrown away and eaten by rats or decomposers.  Invest in a label machine, or put a ‘toxic’ sticker on your sodium chloride.

Much love and laughter,

Kelly