HOLIDAY LETTER RECAP: "MOTHERHOOD" AND FRISBEE MARATHONS
By Patricia Misiuk

Sometimes they're tucked in with holiday cards; others stand alone. Unless you live in a different galaxy, you know what I'm talking about – those Pollyanna updates sharing news about Bob's promotion, Marie's award-winning garden and son Ted's 4.0 GPA.

Unlike most of the snowflake-bordered computer-generated chronicles, my 2008 recap won't be primarily focused on people and it won't be all upbeat.

First, I'll dispense with the downers: my newly-acquired rotator cuff injury, white hairs outnumbering brown, and a new height (I've shrunk a quarter of an inch).

Now to the big news ­– and it didn't make the tabloids: I'm a new mother at the age of 62. Thankfully the pregnancy – for me, at least – didn't involve cravings, weight gain or labor pains.

Hubby and I are the proud parents of a golden retriever puppy, our holiday gift to ourselves, wrapped into one hyperactive 20-pound canine with teeth sharper than hypodermic needles and the ability to Rototill our backyard into a chasm deeper than the Grand Canyon.

Our first bone of contention as new parents was naming our puppy.

"How 'bout Goldie?" my husband suggested.

"Too common," I said.

"Honey. Butterscotch. Amber," he countered.

"You picked the puppy. Only fair I name her," I said, playing my trump card.

I dubbed our ball of fur Macushla (Ma-koosh-la), an Irish term of endearment.

Our days are currently immersed in puppyhood: a Big Brother vigilance so table legs aren't gnawed into toothpicks, exuberant praises when our kibble inhaler makes #1 and #2 outdoors, and marathon sessions of Frisbee (oh, my aching rotator cuff).

With the holidays approaching, we are rethinking our decor, menu and travel plans. Macushla views wires as canine string cheese so Hubby fashioned barricades around all things electrical.

"So that means no twinkling lights that play carols inside," he muttered.

"Yup," I said. "Let's adorn our grove of one three-foot high orange tree then crank up the music to torture the neighbors."

Since Macushla possesses the Superman attribute to leap tall buildings in a single bound, inside decorations will be taped to the ceiling.

Traditionally my Martha Stewart gene kicks into overdrive as I reacquaint myself with the kitchen, the normal venue for nukable meals. I usually bake up a storm of artery-clogging goodies. Our oven door is glass and Macushla, aka Narcissus, hogs the area as she stares and barks at "that other dog." So I may foist off store-bought cookies as – perish the thought – home-baked.

We always visit the in-laws for the holidays, a 90-mile panting, canine whining "are we there yet?" drive. Recently a 15-mile jaunt with carsick puppy resulted in Hubby's new fashion statement, partially digested puppy chow.

In view of our new, and yes lovable, family member, we'll invite the in-laws to our house. While munching on store-bought cookies, they can ooh and aah as they admire our ceiling decorations.

As a final thought, I would like to wish everybody a happy holiday season. Gotta go now, though, and load up on Scotch tape and store-bought baked goods.