Sometimes . . .
. . . sliding through the snow-laden street to the point of rear-ending your father is all you need to realize that perhaps your life and those of your children are more important than a Christmas Eve service (no matter how beautifully planned).
It's at this point you make the slow and steady drive around the block to return home and, after testing all possible entries into the home to which you no longer own a key, you finally try the front door to discover it is unlocked.
Your two-year-old might cry because she wants to go in the car, but if this should occur, a successful diversionary tactic may be to suggest she play in the snow. And, excitedly, she will. Decked out in her beautiful crimson and black Christmas dress, white tights and fancy black shoes, covered in her classy, red-hooded coat, black faux fur trimming her gorgeous face, she will, fearlessly, grasp the freezing particles of ice and snow with her bare naked hands, flinching not at the coldness, only to toss snowballs at her father.
You'll sit in the aged plastic lawn chair on your parents' front porch, feeding your son (whose snazzy suit worn by his father at this age is currently hidden by the blue Mexican blanket hurriedly grabbed on your way out the door) the bottle you warmed for the church service but now, instead, provides a way for you to quickly feed him while you watch the aforementioned snowy scene unfold before you.
When all of this happens, you know you'll treasure Christmas Eve moments like this in your heart - probably more so than singing carols in a church pew.
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