Page 18 of Priority

I even offered for us to take an extended vacation – just the two of us – to go see his favorite surfer compete in Brazil or Tahiti or any other country of his choosing to which he bit back by saying traveling with a Shubie wasn’t a gift but a chore and that he’d be passing on the offer.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been that pissed and proud in the same breath.

He will make a helluva board member when his time comes.

“This is afamilyevent,” Evie chastises on heavy sigh seconds before her wife – that’s also still her assistant – arrives with a cup of fresh hot chocolate in her hands. “It’s bad enough I can practically see where Santa puts his North Pole in that dress, but could youat leastkeep the language atA Charlie Brown Christmas,please?” One more flash nearly blinding us precedes her two-finger military motion to the photographer. “Let’s keep it moving, Jack Lost. We have sixty-two minutes until our focus needs to be centered on Mr. Reese’s overly sentimental speech about charity or clarity or candles…”

“Community,” Jenni snickers on a tiny finger wave goodbye to all of us.

You’d think over the years that Evie would’ve calmed down or Jenni would’ve become wound tighter yet neither occurred.

They’ve each remained – respectively – in their known roles, and it’s oddly comforting.

Like knowing who the hero is and who’s the sidekick.

Or who’s the hero and who’s the villain.

“She’s the reason black licorice flavored coal candy was invented,” Bryn sassily states up at me, blue eyes even brighter thanks to her favorite mascara. “And the reason I stockpile it when it goes on sale at the end of every Christmas season.”

“To have old candy to put in her stocking?”

“Exactly.”

Yes.

The woman I love more than life itself isdefinitelystill a sexy supervillain.

“Are there really no more sparkly blue buttons?” Brae defeatedly asks, shoulders slumping to the ground. “I wanted my snoductor in her symphony blues.”

Blakely pushes a couple pieces around to assist in the search. “I thought we were supposed to be making snowmen.”

“Snowcreatures,” my wife corrects from beside me, less than cleverly hoarding brown pipe cleaner pieces to create what appears to be Vulcan ears on the side of her ping pong ball beings head. “Gender, sex, species, and occupation are all up to the discretion of the creator.”

“Mom’s making Snock,” Wy informs on a crooked grin. “Snowman Spock.”

“Live long and snosper,” Bryn retorts, flashing him the hand signal, which he promptly returns.

You would think knowing how to communicate with her would make it easy – or at the very leasteasier– to communicate with him, yet it doesn’t.

Very few tactics even transfer over.

“Here’s a blue one!” Blakely theatrically announces.

“All snope is not lost!” Replies her sister.

“Must we put the snow prefix in front of everything?” I mirthfully inquire.

“We snust,” playfully pokes my son. “Snust we, Mom?”

“We snust.”

The silliness successfully gets me snickering, encouraging the twins to continue, “Oh snow, Brae!” She angles the object beside the others that are already glued on. “That’s not the right snade of snue!”

“You sound like Clayface doing his best Shakespeare impersonation while simultaneously melting,” leaves me in between chuckles. “As your dadanda Batman expert-”

“Baxpertif you will,” Wy good-naturedly injects.

“-I am equally impressed and terrified.”

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