Today was awesome, a mandatory break from the world beyond our four walls. We baked cookies and drew pictures, played Uno and tinkered with legos. Late lunch was cream of tomato soup and fresh corn muffins, followed two hours later by hot chocolate. And all of it took place in the glow of our tree.
Ah, yes, our tree. We're using our Charlie Brown tree, which is a pathetic faker my husband found lying dustily in a Sears hardware ten years ago and brought home for the then-two year old's room. I believe he paid around $10 for it, which is roughly $9 too much, the whole thing being so awful that I want to use creative spelling so there can be no doubt that absolutely zero trickery is even attempted. A tree? Would I try to fool you? With this thing? Pah! Here, have some krab dip.
Let me tell you about my Trëyë.
In full it stands 42 inches tall and sports roughly twenty exceptionally fake-looking branches. The trunk is a metal pole jammed into maybe a 12 inch tall cylinder of a wood-ish material jammed onto a metal plate. For whatever reason, the children find this tree ah-maaazing, and beg for it to come out any time I open the door to the attic stairs (it lives on the landing).
This year, inspired by what I know not, I decided to let them have it as The Tree, capital -T, capital-T. And so we brought it out, covered the metal plate with some really exciting holiday fabric, festooned it with a kablillion lights and entirely too many boxes of oversize ornaments, and now it is so completely and shamelessly overdecorated that it looks like it strangled disco.
Don't you love my stories?