It was raining on Tuesday night when we left Julia’s third grade Christmas program and we all came home with wet feet, but my mother was the one that just couldn’t seem to get warm after that.
“I think I’m getting sick,” she said, shivering and looking miserable and cursing us all.
Three days later, half the house was laying fevered and motionless in a heap on the couch. (Not counting Dave who had conveniently escaped to work for the weekend.) And so began a day and a half long viewing marathon of Christmas shows. The Grinch. Charlie Brown. Winnie the Pooh. A Christmas Carol. Mickey’s Christmas Carol. Mickey’s Once Upon a Christmas. Mickey’s Twice Upon a Christmas. Shrek the Halls. It’s a SpongeBob Christmas! The Polar Express. The Santa Claus. Elf. And even some stuff I’ve never even heard of before.
Finally, last night, the kids started to stir having stewed in Christmas juices at an average temperature of 102.3 most of the weekend. They disappeared into their room for a bit and reemerged wearing dresses and singing Christmas carols. I followed the sound to the dining room where they’d set up shop and were cranking out paper chains and snowflakes.
“There’s something different about your ears…” I observed.
“We’re elves, Mom!”
Later, we made gingerbread houses.
By then he kids had returned to their natural state of rounded ears and near-nakednesss.
Phoebe, the last of my sicklies, was, at last, well enough to hoover up the stray candy pieces.
And eat the leftover icing straight out of the bag.
This morning, she was ready for her elf ears.
And all is well. (Except me.) (Guess who’s sick now?)