It started with Mom yelling, “ITTTT’SSSS TIIIIIMMMMEEEE!” like she was about to enter a wrestling ring, but instead of body slams, she was hauling up bins of glitter and tangled lights from the basement.

Dad sighed. The kind of sigh that sounds like it’s been waiting all year. “Already?” he said. “It’s not even Thanksgiving.”

Mom just grinned and said, “Seven and a half days after Halloween wraps is basically restraint.”

James and I were ready.

We were helpers.

BIG HELPERS.

We carried one bin. Okay, half a bin. Okay, we dragged it. But still. We were in the zone. We unwrapped ornaments. We tangled tinsel. We tried to eat a cinnamon-scented pinecone (James). We were essential personnel.

And then… we got bored.

The grown-ups were arguing about which string of lights was “the good one” and whether the tree skirt was in the “red bin or the redder bin.” So James and I slipped away. Quietly. Like Christmas ninjas.

We found the markers.

We found our bellies.

We made art.

James drew a snowman on my back. I gave him a candy cane mustache. We were giggling so hard we couldn’t breathe. We were living. Naked, festive, and free.

Then we heard it.

The footsteps.

The Mom Gasp™.

“WHAT. IS. HAPPENING.”

We froze. James had a green Sharpie in one hand and a Rudolph nose drawn on his belly button. I had “HO HO HO” written across my chest like a tiny holiday billboard.

Mom blinked.

Then she smiled.

Which was suspicious.

“Bath time,” she said sweetly. “Right now.”

We were herded—gently but firmly—into the bathroom. She even brought snacks. That’s how you know it was a trap.

While we soaked in bubbles and tried to scrub off the evidence, we heard the tree go up. We heard the ornaments clink. We heard Dad say, “Where are the kids?” and Mom say, “Contained.”

We’d been played.

But honestly? Worth it.

Because when you’re seven, and it’s Christmas, and your little brother is covered in reindeer doodles—

You don’t need a tree.

You need markers.

And a getaway plan.