For a minute last night, it was a Christmas moment from a story. We sat in the darkened living room, lit only by the Christmas lights on the porch and Jess's Dickens village on the window shelf, listening to "Polly Anderson's Christmas Party" by Stuart McLean. Outside, the headlights of the cars illuminated the falling snow with each pass, and the wind rustled the bare limbs of the trees.

But looking more closely, the precipitation was not snow but likely sleet, because nothing accumulated on the ground and the patio looked wet. I woke up this morning at one point with a charge in my stomach, that feeling of Christmas mornings of my youth, and smiled to myself before closing my eyes again and drifting off. It was early, I knew, because nobody was awake -- not even Mom, the first one up every year. She revealed later that she first woke at 5:30, but managed to fall asleep for another hour. As it was, it was 9 a.m. before Jess opened the door to my room and shoved the cat inside to wake Casey and me.

We came downstairs to a cold, wet, windy, rainy Christmas Day, and it's only continuing in that vein. Gifts unwrapped, Trading Spaces watched (twice; it's a marathon) and showers begun, we're whiling away the idle afternoon hours until Uncle Chic and Donna arrive for dinner, the cousins follow later, and Casey and I grapple with the decision of whether we should head back north early, hopefully beating further horrendous weather (it may turn into snow, with three inches by morning); try to stay and go to our regular (for my friends) Christmas night movie (because Catch Me If You Can opens); or try to stay for the movie, sleep another night here, and wake early and go straight to work in the morning. It's an hour drive with no traffic, but hopefully the day after the holiday will keep many northbound commuters home. But in doing that, we could be gambling with the road conditions.

It may put a damper on the end of the day, but otherwise, it's been a nice Christmas so far.