It’s 4am. Temperatures in Seattle are at a 44 year record low of 19 degrees. People across the city are snug in their beds.
The four of us are huddled together under a pile of blankets in our king-sized bed. But the huddling is not out of love… this huddling is for WARMTH. Inside OUR house it isn’t quite freezing but it’s close at a frigid 58 degrees.
That’s right, the furnace chose THIS EXACT MOMENT of record low temperatures to STOP WORKING.
Well, if we’re exact about it, the furnace actually stopped working weeks ago. But who needs to be exact? We didn’t really notice all that much until this freezing night.
“Mommy,” whispers CJ, sitting up, “Mommy, I don’t feel good.”
“Lie DOWN!” I hiss, “You’re letting in the cold air!”
He lies back down but soon is sitting up again. ”I really don’t feel good,” he says and then HURGGGHLLLLLUGGH he starts vomiting. lots and lots of vomiting. all over ME vomiting.
WHY is it always on me? WHY?
I leap out of bed… brrr it’s cold… and peel off my saturated clothes. The sheets and blankets are soaked. The house is freezing.
“JASON STOP BELLA FROM EATING THE VOMIT!” I shout.
CJ is crying.
My nose feel sort of numb. I think I might have frost bite.
Oh the rancid smell!
And that’s the story of how my Christmas spirit froze up and then got flushed down the drain with the a putrid mess of sour smelling carrot chunks.