Fairytale of New Braunfels

We are home in Texas for Christmas—a truly magical time of fights, makeups, cousins saying terrible things to each other, and four adults (formerly “the kids”) who should absolutely know better by now.

Our trip got off to an auspicious start on one of the rare mornings Bubs will spontaneously dance with me in the kitchen. For a man not known for spontaneity, it’s one of my favorite things about him. His song of choice was “Fairytale of New York” by The Pogues.

It’s actually a gorgeous Christmas song. Romantic. Wistful. And… lyrically questionable.

As we danced, I heard the female singer casually drop, “you maggot, you f*ggot,” and slowly turned to see TJ frozen in place, staring at us like he’d just discovered buried treasure. You could practically see the mental file folder being created: Bad Words I Heard in My Own Kitchen, Therefore Probably Allowed.

I made him promise not to repeat what he heard. He looked me straight in the eye and said, “Okay, Mom.”

I know for a fact that was a lie.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, we were traveling with my brother Brian. In my head, this felt efficient—three adults, three kids. What I forgot is that Brian and TJ are both about to turn eight in terms of mentality and share a deep, spiritual devotion to gross-out humor and chaos.

After the logistical nightmare of strollers, security, and shoes that apparently don’t belong to anyone, I didn’t have the energy to separate them on the plane. I sat there listening to my 26-year-old brother and 8-year-old son giggle behind me for three hours, seriously questioning my qualifications as a mother.

We flew into Austin, rented a car, and drove the rest of the way home. The giggling never stopped.

The second we pulled into our old driveway—the house Addie now rents from us—TJ unbuckled himself and screamed, “GOTTA GO SEE LANEY!” before bolting up the street toward my sister Jenn’s house.

I remember smiling, genuinely touched. Aw, I thought. He loves her so much. Laney isn’t just his cousin; she’s his best frenemy, his sparring partner, his emotional equal. It felt sweet. Wholesome. A Hallmark moment.

That feeling lasted approximately six minutes.

Jenn soon appeared, walking TJ back down the street by the shoulder like a defeated little prisoner. Her expression said I am tired, disappointed, and deeply annoyed, and before either of us could ask what happened, she said, “Ask him what he just called Laney.”

Silence.

Then—encouraged, it turns out, by my brother Brian—TJ had informed his beloved cousin that she was, and I quote, “an old slut on junk.”

Which, if you’re curious, is in fact a lyric from “Fairytale of New York.”

When I use TJ’s full name, he knows he’s in trouble.
“James Travis! What got into you? Do you know how rude that was?”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Uncle Brian said it would be funny.”

Jenn looked at Brian.
I looked at Brian.

Brian suddenly found the sky very interesting.

Jenn was (understandably) furious. Laney is her youngest, and the words had landed hard, even if TJ didn’t fully understand them. Apologies were made. Lectures were delivered. Brian was mentally disowned for a solid five minutes.

But the thing about families—and especially sisters—is that once the emotional temperature is raised, it rarely cools evenly.

Everyone was already on edge. We were unpacking. Kids were overstimulated. Addie was days away from having her first baby. My mother-in-law was hovering like a woman personally responsible for ushering in both Christmas and a grandchild. The house was loud. The air was tight.

The next day we were all hanging out at my parents’ house, ostensibly watching the Cowboys game, but in reality there were kids running in and out, adults dropping off presents, and my sister-in-law saying to her brother, “I swear to God, Craig, if she tells me to get off my feet one more time…”—speaking, of course, of their shared mother.

I wanted to show everyone how hard Ashley laughs when I reenact the dance scenes from A Charlie Brown Christmas. And yes, it’s stupid. Yes, it’s silly. But it’s so fun, and it’s literally a laugh button for my eight-month-old.

And Jenn made a comment that landed sharper than intended.

It tipped me over. Funny thing is, I don't even remember what she said. 

I stormed off.

And in a move that will live forever in our family lore, I stormed off without my baby.

Not because I don’t care about my child, but because my emotional brain short-circuited and defaulted to she’s safe, she’s with family, while my dignity marched ahead without supervision.

I arrived back at Addie’s house swearing to Bubs that I was never speaking to Jenn again.

A short while later, there was a knock at the door.

It was Jenn’s husband Michael, holding Ashley—happy, smiling, completely unbothered by any of this—who said, “Hey. Your wife forgot your baby.”

Bubs asked, “I’m assuming Jennifer is never speaking to Dani ever again either?”

Michael smiled and said, “Of course she’s not. But she wanted me to remind you that we’re leaving for Austin for our adult night out as soon as the Cowboys game is over.”

Which is how family estrangement works around here: dramatic vows of silence, followed immediately by logistical coordination.

And honestly? That’s Christmas here.

Everyone is on the brink of something—new babies, old memories, frayed nerves, big joy. It’s loud and messy and occasionally unhinged. We fight, we make up, we swear each other off, and then we hand over the baby and ask what time dinner is.

It is exhausting.
It is ridiculous.
It is love.

And somehow, it’s still the most wonderful time of the year.