Hipster Christmas Special

I have lots of stories about carting the boys to Denver. But why spoil a Christmas by describing my mental breakdown? I’ll get to all the juicy bits next week. I’d rather regale you with Baby’s First Colorado Christmas.

Our friends the Goodriches have impeccable timing. At the very moment Diana, Luca, Elijah and I were at each other’s throats, trying to unpack a life’s worth of knickknacks, they called to invite us to their Christmas Eve tradition.

We drove downtown to the Masonic temple. No, the Goodriches aren’t Masons. None of them know the secret symbols on the dollar bill. They’re members of an alternative Christian church that rents from the secret society.

As we sat down, a 30-Something dude wearing a cowboy shirt approached the audience.

“Uh, this is, like a kids’ Christmas service. So we encourage your kids to, like, yell and stuff.”

I realized this was the priest. He looked more like he should be starring in “Ski School 2: Electric Boogaloo” than leading a congregation.

He introduced a three piece rock band, who led us through all the Christian classics. Wait, are they playing with ironic detachment or enthusiasm? Only the screaming children knew for sure.

Luca took the priest’s instructions to heart. His howls of “Uppieeee Uppieeee” could be heard clearly over the Emo harmonies. But as I looked around the bearded, the tattooed and the completely normal, no one cared. And no one cared when Elijah and his new buddy, Davis Goodrich, re-interpreted the hymn’s lyrics to include the word “poopie.”

And this Christmas morning, as I held Luca and watched the sun rise over the Rocky Mountains (we don’t have mountain views, but allow me some creative license), I realized just how awesome this new adventure is going to be. And I was feeling actual enthusiasm, and not the ironic detachment I do often use at this time of year.

Happy Christmas, readers. I love my family.