The plans for the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend include climbing into the dark abyss that is our attic, halogen lamp in hand, topography map at the ready, GPS coordinates memorized, all to successfully locate and transport our Christmas decorations into the living room.
It will be a family event. The Boy, our Girl, the Mister and I will unwrap fragile ornaments and knick-knacks, hang heirloom plaster handprints and wooden clothes pin reindeer made during kindergarten holiday art class, ceramic and crystal babies dated with significantly appropriate years, and stiffly starched snowflakes crocheted as a newlywed trying to create our own Christmas traditions.
Back in the day, when our children were finally old enough to help decorate our Christmas tree, it was obvious which ones they hung and which ones their dad and I did. Theirs only reached about two-feet up from the bottom and ours two-feet down from the top as we worked our way around the tree. Trying not to get tangled, we left the middle of the tree woefully bare of holiday accouterments. It’s been a while since that’s been a problem.
Now, that both of my babies towers over me, it’s more likely one of them will place the angel on top of the tree than their dad or me.