Ugly Christmas Sweater

The entire week had been blissful; with not a single unfortunate incident to report. One would have thought I'd be grateful that my children were acting like saints. I would have been except for one minor detail: The deadline for the article that I write for The Loop newspaper was rapidly approaching and all this role-model conduct was leaving me with no artistic inspiration.

Usually this late in the week, something crazy would be happening. Somebody would have found a few left over cherry bombs in the garage; or the kids would have attempted to give the dog a bath in the fountain; or the school would have sent home a lice notice that would keep us all on the edge of our seats for a few days. But lately, things had been all peace and serenity, and it was beginning to wear on me.

"Everyone's been so serious," I told my husband, disappointed. "I have no idea what I'm going to write about this week. Just look at them," I gestured to the kids. "They're behaving perfectly!" I threw my hands out exasperated.

My little daughter sheepishly approached me saying, "Sorry, Mommy," and hugged me like the angel she had been all week.

"Here," my husband said inspired, tossing something towards me. "Write about this."

"What is it?" I asked perplexed by what he had thrown my way.

"It's something I pulled out of our closet."

I held it up and recognized it immediately, "This is from high school." I said smiling fondly. "This was my Christmas sweater my sophomore year."

"That's a Christmas sweater?" asked my daughter with a quizzical look.

"Yes," I answered. "It's supposed to be Santa Claus."

"Santa Claus!" she responded in disbelief. "He looks weird. What's in his hair?"

"Dread locks!" exclaimed my oldest son enthusiastically. "It's Bob Marley as Santa. That's too cool. I want to borrow it!"

"You can't," I argued. "People might get the wrong impression of you."

"What about their impression of you?"

"Well, I'm not wearing it!" I exclaimed. "I wouldn't be caught dead in it."

"Actually," said my husband reluctantly, "I bought tickets for the wine walk."

"I can't wear this to the wine walk. People might actually think I support legalized marijuana."

"But, it's the Ugly Christmas Sweater Wine Walk," my husband coaxed, "and it's perfect."

"I want to participate in the event, not actually win it," I said rolling my eyes. "You can wear it." I tossed it back at him.

"It won't fit me," he argued, "or I would."

"It might fit me," said my oldest reaching for it but my husband moved it away from his grasp.

He held the sweater back out to me in an attempt to get me to change my mind. I gave him a dirty look and could hear my youngest two in the kitchen talking.

"I thought Santa's real name was Kris Kringle," my daughter was saying.

"You heard them," my younger son corrected her. "It's obviously Bob Marley."

My husband smiled and nodding toward the pair suggesting, "You could write about that."

Just then my mother surprised me by arriving to watch the kids. Our dog, John Hancock, hearing her come through the front door, rounded the corner into the living room at a full run and unable to stop on the wood floors, sailed head-first into the door.

"I did have a dream that John Hancock was my seeing-eye-dog," I said motivated, "and he wasn't very good at it. I could write about that."

"I wish I had been there," said my oldest son humored.

"You were," I said aggravated. "Just be grateful I couldn't see you. I will never enjoy playing Marco-Polo again – and I have you to thank."

I grabbed the sweater from my husband and reluctantly went to try it on. Seeing that it still fit put me instantly in a good mood and suddenly I was excited to kick off the holidays.

I may have been a little hesitant at first, but was happy to find I wasn't the only one who had questionable taste at some point in life.

By the end of the Ugly Sweater Wine Walk, a group of us were dancing reggae down the street singing old Bob Marley tunes. It was a great time and I will be proudly sporting the same sweater next year as it was quite the hit.