Steven J Kolbe

Dear Fellow Humans,

To quote a birthday card I once bought my sister, “It’s that time of year again: Time to shave that llama.” While we might not have any llamas on hand, there’s still plenty to do. There’s putting up the Christmas tree, the lights, the ornaments. Then there’s finding the ornaments that Lucy took off and putting them back on the Christmas tree. There are knives to move to a higher shelf, locks to buy for the toilet, and dishes to fish out of the trash can. Yes, you’ve guessed correctly, this is Christmas with the Millers: The Terrible Twos Edition. 

In April, our Lucy Goose turned two, and she’s been proving it ever since. This year, she’s added full-on speech to her repertoire, copying just about everything we say. In the context of repeating lines from a storybook, this is precious. When parroting back our angry vexation, it is far less so. She has also picked up, somehow, maybe from her sister’s tablet, the concept of passive resistance. This she exerts at any time, from when her legs slam down with a squish during diaper changes to when her mouth clamps shut during toothbrush time to when her body goes completely limp while I try to pull her from the pew ahead of ours at church. Every night, bedtime feels like a toddler protest rally. We end more fights than I’d like, with both of us sitting in time-out. But, after a few minutes of cooling down, she’ll pop up and say, “I’m better.” Then she’ll give me a big hug and run off to find where she left her picket sign. 

Margot, too, is getting older. In March, she turned six and shortly thereafter finished kindergarten. She is still our teeny, tiny, mighty Margot and is filled with as much energy as ever. In first grade, as in kindergarten, she is finding herself on the wrong side of discipline–but always for talking. “Do you know what profession really likes to talk?” I asked her one night at dinner. “Teachers.” 

Her mother piped up then, “That’s why Daddy became a teacher, so the teacher could never tell him to stop talking.”

“Is that true?” Margot asked, incredulously. She’s old enough now to know we’re almost always joking. 

I just nodded, because this time it absolutely was true. I’m not sure what she’s going to do when she gets older, but I do know this: there will be talking.

Charlie turned eight in January. Since he’s the only boy among the siblings, I frequently worry he’ll be overly influenced by female interests and concerns, so I was thankful when he came home one day and said he wanted a football. Of course! I bought it for him that weekend, and he proudly took it to school. Apparently, the other boys weren’t letting him play with the football at school. Why? Because he had named it Chocolate Egg and was playing a game with it in which he and the girls cared for it until it hatched. On the plus side, it has made it into his weekly school writing. Here’s an excerpt from last week: “Titus deceived Chocolate Egg and me. Chocolate Egg used to be a peasant until I adopted him. Chocolate Egg is always merciful.” I’m guessing either there are vocabulary words the kids have to use, or Charlie’s relationship with his football has taken a mystical turn. I’m too afraid to ask. 

Over the summer, Bonnie turned ten. Double digits. I’m still in denial. This year, she announced that she couldn’t read the board. Her vision test proved she needed glasses, around the same age her mother got them. She’s near-sighted; otherwise, we would’ve found out much sooner, because the girl cannot put down her book. Even if the house was on fire, she’d hold up a finger and check to see how much of her chapter was left. Her school displays the students’ AR scores using Olympic Rings. Bonnie plowed past the 100-point ring long ago and is now past 250. They’re going to have to add a 300-point ring before the semester is done. The next biggest reader in the school has just over 100 points, and it is, you guessed it, Chocolate Egg.

Susan and I turned forty back in September. The next day, we could feel our metabolisms slow, our vision decline, and our focus on our life goals heighten. Not really. But that is what AI-Overview says was supposed to happen, so who are you going to believe, me or it? Susan has taken to her faith in a way I can only describe as inspiring. She’s decided to read the Bible, like right now, and gets up at five every morning to pore over Genesis or John or Ezekiel, all while I’m still cozy in my bed. We’ve been having our priest, Father Ben, over for dinner throughout the year, and the two of them are conspiring to improve family formation at our church. This time next year, I might just be writing about how her amazing new job at the church went. Stay tuned–and keep her in your prayers!  

As for me, I’m still at Holcomb High, teaching senior and college English, and I’m still writing away, though not really publishing. I have been thinking a lot this year of the Carl Jung quote, “Life begins when you’re forty. Up until then, you are just doing research.” When I first started writing, all I wanted was publication: a big magazine, a literary award, a book deal. Even after my first book hit the presses, I was consumed with the idea of an agent, a bigger publisher, and an international tour. While I can’t deny I’d still love those things, the last few years for me have largely been about what kind of literary career I want. Though I’ve been writing more than ever and, thanks to my amazing critique group, polishing what I write, I still haven’t found exactly what I’m looking for. Perhaps I’ll find it in 2026. 

Wishing you and yours a very merry Christmas,

The Millers