Earlier this week I shared with you one of the highlights of Christmas vacation, and because I know the suspense must be KILLING you (I’m sorry if you weren’t able to sleep last night), I present to you “Things That Would Only Happen to Me (and Liz Lemon): The Christmas Edition Part 2.”
So after chasing a runaway dog for over an hour and a half and arriving late to my parents’ on Christmas Eve, we ended up having a very nice day. We got back home at a decent hour and the kids opened their traditional Christmas Eve gifts: a book and a new pair of PJ’s.
And then I turned to my annual Christmas Eve task: wrapping presents until my fingers bleed.
Or even just covered up.
Oh, well. At least I had Husband to help me. Right?
Husband put himself in charge of making sure the boys didn’t come downstairs while I was wrapping, which basically meant he would lie in the hallway with his laptop and watch episodes of “Psych” on Netflix.
Oh, yes, helpful indeed.
So in order to keep myself awake and alert while I wrestled the paper and bows, I decided to watch something that would put me in the Christmas spirit. And of course, I chose “Ghost Adventures.”
When Husband announced he was going to bed at 10:30, I said, “Yeah, I’ll probably be up there soon. I think I’m just about done.”
Three hours, 73 presents and countless ghosts later, I was still downstairs. The presents were finally all wrapped and I was tidying up the kitchen so our photos the next morning didn’t reveal to our future selves what incredible slobs we are. I admit, I was getting pretty spooked after nearly 5 hours of the paranormal marathon I had embarked on. So when I turned around and saw a figure standing in the doorway of the kitchen, I did what any rational mom would do on Christmas Eve night when everyone was asleep, and screamed my lungs out.
Then I realized that the figure wasn’t a ghostly apparition but Boy #2, and then I realized that he was about to turn around and see that Santa had already left gifts, even though I was still downstairs. Determined not to spoil the Christmas magic, I started running toward him so I could direct him back into the hallway and out of the line of sight of the incriminating evidence. But, since I was on a hardwood floor AND wearing my special Christmas socks, my feet suddenly flew off the ground — and I landed flat on my back.
And now, Boy #3 was up too.
Despite the pain shooting through my tailbone, I managed to crawl to Boy #2 and shove him into the hallway, his eyes now huge in confusion, and, possibly, horror. The bruised back (and elevated blood pressure) was worth it, though, because he didn’t see a thing.
So after getting Boy #3 back to bed and reading to Boy #2 so he could settle down enough to go to sleep, I finally fell into bed.
My back was throbbing, my fingers were cramped from repeatedly tearing off pieces of Scotch tape, and my pulse was now racing. But I got to sleep until 6 a.m., a whole 4 hours, until the Christmas morning mayhem began.
Right out of the story “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”…