I had this idea that I would write a quippy, genre-bending Shea Family Newsletter, as an end-of-year post, but then some flu swept through our house like a plague and my sense of humor completely evaporated along with my ability to regulate my body temperature. Instead of sharing honest anecdotes about our year as a commentary on the timeless tradition of annual newsletters from distant relatives who tell you only the shiny bits in the cheeriest voices, I’ve been in bed, at home, never not in pajamas, thinking about the cross.
We’ve been battling this flu for most of a week and now that one set of symptoms has passed, it seems we’re acquiring a new nemesis: the prolonged, aching, secondary sinus infection. The kids really are troopers, taking it all in stride with their fever-rosed cheeks, and enjoying all the extra downtime and snuggles. As for me, I’m barely holding it together. Every cough bears the edge of anxiety that more than pee is warming my pants. On New Year’s Eve, I lay awake in bed worried that were I to go into labor, I would not have the strength to push out the baby and have to endure some alternative I’ve never experienced and so can’t fathom.
So, while I lay anxious, in the midst of my fever, it occurred to me, and I think for the first time, that Jesus probably had a fever when he hung on the cross. It seems likely with all the open wounds, the dusty environment, and a time before sanitation. I imagined him hanging there, fighting in agony for each breath, feverish and chilled, naked. A spectacle. And I wondered, did he fight to breathe for as long as he possibly could so that more could witness his death, and so the miracle of his resurrection? This sounds like the man I know. During my fever, I was certain that I would not have fought very long to keep breathing had it been me. So thankfully, for all of humanity, it wasn’t.
Now that I’ve shared my end-of-year fizzle, I think I will proceed with a few things from the rest of the year, so as not to leave you on such a heavy note. Perhaps I’ll coax my sense of humor back into action.
I’m excited to say we have a new reader in the family. As a mom who is also a teacher, it’s hard for me to discern whether my excitement is coming from the fact that Zoe can now read little books, or that I’m no longer pulling teeth (hers and mine) through the slog of sight words, phonemes, and learning how to sit still. Teaching a person to read is no joke, y’all. My approach has been a little bit every day. Even though it’s just a little bit, it’s still. Every. Day. Maybe we’ll get the sweet payoff of her loving reading as much as Jacob and me.
Oh, the excitement in every page poured over! Having just endeavored to sell used books at a street market, I can assure you that reading isn’t as cool as I think it is. I’ll bore you anyways. Mostly I read in the dark of my room on a kindle with multiple sleeping bodies around me. The opportunities for me to sit down for a chunk of reading a physical book are few and far between. The ones I managed to get through in 2022 seem like a decent place to start as recommendations because they required more sacrifice, focus, and devotion. There was Sally Rooney’s Normal People[1], Mandy Len Catron’s, To Fall in Love with Anyone, Do This[2], and Alberto Moravia’s Contempt[3]. Also, get ready for a review-type thing about my current physical read, Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder. You’re intrigued, I know.
The kids, of course, keep my nose out of my own books and in all manner of other business. Theo, for instance, is ready to potty train. He’s almost two. He understands the system and has that little Potty book memorized. This was attempted and totally abandoned. Just one of many failures this year. Fifty bucks a month on diapers is totally justifiable, right? Because I was too lazy and scattered to stick with it for more than a day. Right?
If anyone knows the trick to growing your bank account while you gr
ow your family, please leave your secrets in the comments. One thing I’ve missed this year is date nights. Remember those? No shame on my husband, here, ladies and gentlemen. In years past when the bank was fuller, the help more available, dates were a weekly event. The budget puts creativity to the test. We had a date back in November in which we attended a Pay What you Will Night at a local theater. That was a hit, and we’ll do it again when the next show opens. We’ll also continue the habits of having friends over, taking the occasional bike ride together or with just a baby in tow, or tucking in early with a glass of wine, some overly scented candles, and the chance to luxuriate in each other behind a closed door.
The culmination of this year has been this space, The Multihyphenate Housewife, where I have found a voice I wasn’t sure I had. I think I can say without hesitation that it’s been my favorite part of 2022. Seeing this idea come to life and the support people have shown me is beyond what I imagined. I’ve had many conversations with people that would never have happened otherwise. I’ve dug in deeper with the family that have been distant too long. I’ve disciplined myself to be producing, even if just short pieces, every week. I’ve found the writing partner in my husband I’ve always wanted. All of this comes at a cost because the best things do. So for 2023, I want more of all this. More reading, more potty training, more creative date nights, and yes, more writing.
Bear with me now. This baby is about to make their entrance.
[1] An Irish love story. Maddeningly honest in its portrayal of millennial commitment aversions, shallow relationships, and the damned meritocracy. And, of course, hilarious, in a cringy way.
[2] This read, to me, like a different flavor of Sex and the City. By this I mean, Catron isn’t a materialistic city girl. Sure, she lives in the city and so has the dating and professional opportunities that cities afford, but she comes from a place where valleys are called hollers and takes up outdoorsy hobbies with her boyfriend. Her critiques of love are Bradshaw-esque. Honest, questioning, and (sorry Carrie) much more beautifully written.
[3] A modern Italian love debacle. From the first page, you’re gripped with the impending grief of the book’s end. This is a very masculine tale that puts on blast nearly every male insecurity you might imagine while painting the mysteries of women in a unique light. The Italian landscapes really add to the charm of this little novel.
Bravo Char! I’m so proud of you. Love you❤️
Thank you! Can’t wait to see you!