January 1, 2022

“I say run little monster, before you know who I am.”  Royal Blood.

My mom had surgery last year.  I don’t think they called it a hernia, but what I know of hernias, I’ll call it that.   There was a complication in recovery, so the surgeon intervened, rezipped her innards, and discharged her late afternoon.

My mom is tough.  I won’t list all of her flawed surgeries.  There have been many.  I won’t list all the times she’s been thrown from a horse.  There have been many.  Digging her own koi pond.  Putting in her own sprinkler system.  Scorching an attorney under cross-examination.  Delivering her stillborn child at 32 weeks.  Naming a cat after the neurosurgeon who removed her pickleball-sized brain tumor.  Phillip Peter.  I don’t know if Phillip is one L or two.  Probably two, since the tumor was twice a pickleball.  Leukemia kills her husband, my dad, at 51.  Cancer being the dick that it is, she’d lose both her parents the ensuing four years.

Toughness is my mom’s quiet superpower.  It’s sometimes less quiet.  Break glass in case of attorneys.  And yet break same glass in need of limitless love.

Mom’s general anesthesia had given way to nausea, abdominal pain, and grimaces over unavoidable potholes as we made our way home.  Being the ‘Sally’ she is, she chatted her way door-to-door.  Horses horses horses.  And yet being the Susan Inman she is, not in her house for even five minutes we discover she‘d come unzipped.

COVID has been a gut punch to health, economies, and friendships.  Not to be flippant, but it is what it is. Many of us are navigating paths forward that reflect our attempt to discern facts and assimilate them into our individual circumstances.  The remaining loudmouths living on the fringes can take flying leaps.  I had written 24 consecutive MINMAN Holiday Newsletters through the joys of new love and new life, the death of my father, the trepidation of self-employment, the madness of parenting teens, and the bewilderment of me — ME — being married to the most beautiful woman in the universe.  COVID wasn’t clever, just different.  Watching a surgery go into reverse-mode before your eyes?  That was beyond getting bucked from an anxious Arabian.  That’s getting tossed and landing in its pile of shit, head first.  With the horse falling on you, tail first.  My headspace was angry.  By December 2020 I would sit in the hut most midnights, eyes blurred by tears and wine.  Try as I might to summon the resiliency of my mother, I couldn’t muster an ounce of joy.   Type holiday letter.  Erase.  Sip.  Type.  Erase.  Sip again.  Logout eventually.  2020 beat me.  My mother’s suffering, not COVID, was its weapon of choice.

*************

Welcome to the 25th MINMAN Holiday Newsletter.  I’m off the mat.

Kyle is a junior in Aggieland studying Mechanical Engineering.  He continues to smile with ease, like his mom.  He turned 21 Dec. 31st and asked Lesley and I to uninstall our ‘stalk my adult son’ app.  I plan to, once he installs the ‘daddy pays for college’ reminder app.

Ty is a senior at Klein Collins and a recent admit to Aggieland College of Engineering.  Because why have one child spite you when you can have two.  Wait wait wait.  I need to put the petulance on a shelf.  Texas A&M is a fantastic learning institution.  And they don’t have a coach with a monkey that bites young girls in the face.  So lowercase whoop.  Ty is most like his Dad, except when it comes to abs, when he’s most like his mom.  Lesley and I are super excited about the future of Ty’s abs.

Ava has more money in her bank account than her brothers combined.  Ava’s car has more horsepower than her brothers’ cars combined.  I think about these things and smile.  She’s a KC junior aspiring to something less conventional.  Ava has the tenderest heart ever denied by a tender heart.   She’ll also have our entire second floor in eight months.  She’s mildly interested and pre-packing Ty for August ‘22.

I’ve spent 23 years being told I married up.  I usually do a bow of respect and flog myself.  What’s become weird recently is where “married up” comes from.  The HEB cashier.  My dentist.  Even the cats.  Every morning I set out their food they say the same thing.  “Free Lesley.”  Turns out kicking cats does not deter mockery.  They must have Ty’s abs.  Last year Lesley inherited a boot camp from a friend.  She delights in being part of this community of fitness misfits every Monday and Wednesday.  Whenever Lesley leaves the house — for a client appointment, for the store, for a tryst with an infrared sauna— she offers me a proper kiss.  The expression on her face is always the same:  “I choose you.”  I can’t process that.

In September I had a lovely 50th birthday celebration.  My properly-zipped mom worked the room at Burgers & Bordeaux happy to tell everyone that she once threatened to bathe me as a 13-year-old.  The kindness that evening was tremendous.  Maybe it convinced no one that Lesley married laterally.  But friends said she made a good choice.  Which led to more proper kisses. My apologies to The Shaws for the after-party PDA.

In March I got a call from my sister Jennifer.  She asked me if I was happy.  I said not so much. Three weeks later a wise man gave me a choice. Keep seizing on the worst or start seizing on the best.

I have an eldest child who, well, is an Aggie, a middle child who “ WTF’s?” his gaming monitor, a daughter who whines, and a wife who’d rather date a sauna than her husband.  And they all sit around judging my incompleteness.  I shovel their fuel into self-loathing piles already ablaze.

I have an eldest child who balls out when it counts, a middle child who always respects curfew, a daughter who seeks authentic friends, and a wife who’d rather hold my hand than a heating element.  I douse flaming piles with their excellence.

Kyle’s dad is a tool.  Ty’s dad is angry.  Ava’s dad is absentee.  Lesley’s husband is all the above.

Kyle’s dad teaches love and serve.  Ty’s dad is a defender.  Ava’s dad is funny.  Lesley’s husband is all the above.

“My thoughts becoming parasites
(Typhoon)
That live to keep me terrified
(Typhoon)
I tell myself I'll be alright
Typhoons keep on raging
And I don't know why.”

The other day Ty called me in from my sips and tears with some real discomfort.  I sat on the couch and pulled him close while he suffered through a revolting bowel.  I scratched his back, maybe for the last time.  I’ve mostly seized on his worst -- some of which he’s earned, most of which he hasn’t.

It must be tempting to run, knowing me as he does.  Yet he stays.  Remarkably they all stay.

“Nothing here to see

Just a kid like me
Trying to cut some teeth
Trying to figure it out.

Nothing better to do
When I'm stuck on you

I'm still in here

Trying to figure it out.”

Hope you’re well.  Merry Christmas. Love Mark and my newest friends: https://youtu.be/n0AlyFVnde4