The Worst Best Christmas Ever

Jason and I got sick over our vacation. Very sick.

This wasn't the casual sniffling of wintertime colds, but a particularly violent case of the flu including the things I fear most: throwing up and not being able to gorge myself on Christmas fare. Inexplicably, while tossing and turning in a fevered delirium, my mind would inevitably turn to food-- those chocolate milk runs where boys drink a gallon or so and then try to run a mile, or the red indian lentils simmering on the stove-- and I would beset myself again with a horrendous wave of nausea. 

Jason was sick before me and was considerably worse off. His first day of illness was spent in the hospital, where he tried and failed several times to complete a coherent sentence under the influence of morphine. We were quarantined off from the rest of our family. They wore masks and gloves and refused to hug us. No, seriously. They really did. But it got better.

Much better.

There are happy and exciting things happening in Jason's family. There are happy and exciting things happening in mine. 

The holidays can hold so many surprises. So many good things, so many bad.

 Watching Jason puke his guts out in the Burley Emergency Room was so bad.

Seeing Si smile at me for the first time was so good. Dancing with my sisters with our pants hiked up, watching Mission Impossible from the very front row, laughing, talking late at night-- it was all so, so good.

It seems like I always forget how deeply I love my family until I see them again. 

Can't wait for next time.