Every year at Christmastime, Curtis sets up the tree, and the boys and I decorate it. I always have such idealistic expectations for this tradition: we will listen to Christmas music as we lovingly pull out ornaments and reminisce about Christmases past. Joy to the World. Peace on Earth. And all that.
Of course, this is rarely how things actually play out. Most of the time, the tree trimming session ends with me yelling at the boys because they aren't being careful with the breakable ornaments. I usually finish the job myself, after forbidding them to even look at another ornament, lest they break it. I've learned to alleviate this problem somewhat by storing the non-breakable ornaments separately and instructing the boys to pull from that box while decorating.
This year things went surprisingly well. I remained relatively calm and there were no broken ornaments during the process, although Jethro ate a few later.
"Christmas is yummy."
After we finished putting all the ornaments on the tree, it was time for Curtis to add our Christmas angel to the top.
The boys and I crafted our angel ourselves. She is supposed to be singing,
but she looks more like someone just jammed a Christmas tree up her butt.
I gave Curtis his cue, indicating his role in our little Christmas drama was upon us,
Alright, Honey, all we need now is our angel on top.
As I remember, that's sort of a pain in the ass.
So far this year, our pain-in-the-ass angel has yet to make it to the top of the tree.