It was a very atypical Christmas Eve: Aleksa and I woke up warm in our NYC bed rather than frigid in my grandparent’s Connecticut home. Even more shocking was the sight of Aleksa asleep next to me. “Wake up,” I shook him, “Wake up! You’re late for work!”
“I called out,” he said, groggily lifting his head. “Check your texts.” And then his head hit the pillow. I began fumbling around the blankets for my phone, thinking of the many tasks we had strategically planned out for today. All of which with the intention to make it to Connecticut in one piece — except now, it was clear that the plans were about to change.
I retrieved my phone and clicked on the screen: I’m throwing up. Sent at 3:01 A.M.
“Oh my god. You threw up?”
“All night,” he said with his eyes still closed.
I rubbed my temples. “Whyyyyy didn’t you wake me up?!?”
“Because,” he replied, his face smooshed into the pillow, “you looked so peaceful.” He drifted back into a half-baked sleep.
For those first ten minutes after reading the text, I sat in shock at the foot of the bed. The entire week, we had thought that my ill-timed cold was going to be the reason we skipped Christmas in Connecticut. But sickness works in mysterious ways. Never once did I consider a gastrointestinal curveball would strike my husband. And especially not in the early hours of Christmas Eve.
I left him in bed and tidied up our apartment, thinking over the odd synchronicities. As I mentioned earlier, we didn’t wake up in my grandparent’s home, which was usually the case on Christmas Eve. As far back as I can remember, I’ve traveled to Connecticut much earlier for the holidays. Those days leading up to Christmas have always been a blur, filled with eggnog and wrapping paper and chilly walks by the beach with my brother.
This year, I couldn’t take the time off from work to make the early trip home. Which didn’t even matter in the end: I got sick and had to call out of work anyway. What a joke, I thought. What dumb luck. And now what? A cold AND a stomach bug? How would we go to Connecticut now?
I walked back into our room with a bottle of pedialyte, a sleeve of saltine crackers, and a covid/flu test for Aleksa. He drank; he ate; he shockingly tested negative for everything. It was at this point that we tried to think logically. The suitcases were packed and we’d taken the time off. We were looking forward to spending time with family and getting away from the city. But not at the expense of our health.
So we took the morning slow — intellectualizing that it must have been food poisoning — and eventually boarded the Metro North train homebound. Nothing was amiss until we pulled into my family’s driveway four hours later: Aleksa announced he had to lay down.
And lay down, he did: he unfortunately slept through Christmas Eve. He missed the stuffed breads, the charcuterie board, the baked ziti, the beef wellington. He missed the anginettes, the chocolate chip cookies, the peppermint ice cream pie. He even missed the special dish my grandma prepared as a surprise: Serbian paprikash.
On the upside, if there is anywhere to be sick, it’s at your grandparent’s house. Grandmothers make the best soups; grandfathers make the best hot toddies. Aleksa had the guest room to himself while he settled his upset stomach.
Meanwhile, I joined in on the reindeer games downstairs. I had the bright idea to dress up as a Christmas tree for the party. It was as silly as it sounds — though it felt sillier without Mr. Christmas Tree next to me.
All around, it was not exactly the Christmas Eve I pictured. My aunt and I had high expectations for the night, but in the end, our attempt at reinventing the wheel did not go smoothly. There was still way too much food; way too few games; and only my cousin and I crafted crowns.
We did, however, take silly photos. We marveled over the peppermint pie. And we watched my little cousins open their gifts, which becomes more and more exciting as I get older. My grandmother goes appropriately overboard with Christmas decorations, so we had fun admiring her collection of assorted trinkets, too.
When the night came to an end, I settled onto the couch in a bundle of blankets and thought about the morning. When you’re a child, the morning is all you can dream about on Christmas Eve. You can hardly sleep.
Even as an adult, I still feel a bit restless.
Until tomorrow,
That Blogmas Girl
That American Girl 
Leave a comment