When Christmas morning rolled around, I was the first to wake up because my side of the bed is closest to the window, and I heard Noah's parents pulling into the driveway. The plan was that they and my parents would wait in the driveway until we opened the front door, so everyone could come in and see Ethan's reaction to the bounty brought by Father Christmas.
Best laid plans, and all that.
Noah's mom needed the loo, so I staggered out of bed when I heard their voices outside. I grabbed a cardigan and threw it on over my new Christmas pajamas from my mom—a trendy pair of roll-cuff sweatpants and a turquoise tank top with a groovy peace sign on the front.
I reached the front door just as my in-laws were coming up the steps. Leaning over, I grabbed the jingle bells on the handle and quietly opened the door to Noah's mom, who flinched as though I motioned to strike her, then spread her arms to provide protective cover and shouted, "Erin, your boob is out!"
Alas, so it was. In my clamber out of bed the tank top had become twisted. The cardigan had slipped as I leaned over to silence the jingle bells, thus exposing the misaligned tank and my integrity to the elements.
In summation, I flashed my mother-in-law on Christmas morning. I assured everyone this isn't about to become a new Christmas morning tradition, although next year I may go to bed wearing festive pasties, just in case. My only consolation is that it wasn't my father-in-law who made it to the door first.