Christmas Traditions I'll Never Do Again

five: the brewards

Christmas Eve begins with a literal bang.

I'm startled awake by something clattering downstairs. I blink in the early morning light. It's definitely not 9am yet, that's for sure. Has anyone heard of a relaxing vacation around here?

I grudgingly crawl out of bed, taking all of my blankets with me and putting on my clothes without my skin ever being exposed to the freezing air. It's a trick that takes finesse and agility, two things I do not have in any other capacity except when it comes to staying warm.

I trudge downstairs to find that the girls are already at the table having breakfast while Aimee is scrubbing the floors like they hold the DNA linked to a crime scene.

"Hurry up!" Aimee snaps. "We need to get the laundry folded and the snow in the driveway shoveled."

"Mom," Jemma says dubiously. "Who's going to look inside our dryer?"

Aimee shoots her a death glare. "Jemma Stetson."

Jemma sighs. "Sorry, Mom."

When Aimee sees me standing there, she says, "Good morning! You look like you slept well."

I squint. "I look like a Muppet that's been scraped off the bottom of a trash can." I look around at all of the cleaning supplies littered around the house. "What's going on?"

"Oh." Aimee lets out a long, frustrated breath. "The Brewards are coming today instead of tomorrow. They should be here in a few hours and I just wasn't ready and..." her sentence trails off as she spots a new place on the counter to scrub.

I happen to look up just as a white SUV pulls into the driveway. Oh no.

"Um, I don't think you have a few hours," I say.

Aimee squints at me. "What? Why not?"

"Because they're here."

Aimee's eyes grow as large as a frog that's been inflated with air. "What?!"

She commands the girls to put their dishes in the sink, yells at me to put away the throw blanket on the couch (as if I should know where it goes?), and flies around the house, loading up as many things as she can carry and dumping them in discreet places.

The doorbell rings.

Aimee smooths back her flyaways, straightens her shoulders, and like a general of the military, marches to the door and opens it with a smile that would blow a movie star off the red carpet.

"Hi Cassy!" she says. "And Mike--so good to see you! You guys are early!"

The girls line up beside me like we're the von Trapp children, waiting to greet our new governess.

"Christmas is about to get interesting," Eloise says under her breath and I can't tell if that's a good "interesting" or not.

A short, plump woman with ruddy cheeks and a "Save the Drama for your Llama" ugly Christmas sweater comes through the door.

Her eyes light up when she sees me as if we're old friends. "You must be Beverly!"

I know what's coming before it even hits me. And boy does it hit me.

The woman crushes me in a hug that would snap the neck of a Mount Rushmore president.

"I have heard so much about you!" she says.

"Oh boy," I say nervously, and not in the kidding "I hope it's all good things har har" kind of way. I can only imagine all the things Aimee has told this woman.