I'm at a Christmas Eve party in an unfamiliar home, and I go upstairs to find my daughters to alert them we're heading home. All the children play a nice, quiet game in a room behind a closed door.
I gently open the door, but I don't know there's a step to go down into the room.
I proceed to tumble into the room, arms flailing, shrieking and grabbing onto anything that can keep me steady. My black sweater rises above my body like horrible wings. The sweet children see this monstrous figure lunging for them, and they scream so loudly that all the party guests start inquiring from downstairs. The children keep screaming as I regain my balance and try to explain myself. One little boy begins crying. He runs to his father's arm while another boy relates the tale of the Creepy Mother who attacked the good little children at the Christmas Eve Party.
"I think it was the Freaky Mother, not the Creepy Mother," my oldest reports. At least my own children laugh hysterically and talk about how fantastically terrible my entrance was. "You enter a room with flair! You were awesome!"
I spend the rest of the evening apologizing to parents as they comfort their children. I feel horrible about myself. My husband says, "Well, you made the best Christmas memory. Nobody's ever going to forget that party."
Living with flair means you see your Christmas debacles as memory-makers.