If you read Monday’s post, you obviously know by now that we put our holiday decorations up over the weekend. If you haven’t ready Monday’s post…why not? Go ahead, here’s the link, do it now. We’ll wait.
What? It’s a long post. I wouldn’t anyone to feel rushed.
So, anyway, yes, la casa de Puddin looks like Kris Kringle rang the door bell, stepped into the foyer, and opened his white-tinged, red fuzzy coat to reveal a explosive device strapped to his bowl full of jelly. When the timer hit 00:00:00, a bomb consisting of red and green, holiday-themed knicks knacks, tchotchkies, and/or bric-a-brac exploded, spreading it’s wintery payload all over the house.
Of course, it wasn’t really some form of benevolent holiday splinter cell led by a grown man in an elf suit that did all the work, it was the Puddinette. Oh, the kids and I did the bulk of the tree work, sure, but the little things, the things that really give a home that holiday feel are all the doings of a very dedicated Puddinette. You can bet your last shiny nickel that I wouldn’t go to the effort of setting up the snowman snow globe, the Santa Claus throw pillows, the Fisher-Price Holiday play set that only comes out in December, or those fancy, snowflake-laden candy dishes.
What truly boggles my mind, though, is where in the name of Comet and Cupid did all this stuff come from?!
Admittedly, it goes without saying that at some point or another everything came from a store. All of it was likely once wedged into three or four chaotic aisles of holiday accessories at Super-Discount-Mart among a thousand fake trees, two dozen plastic menorah, and enough glittery garland to circle the globe thirteen times.
We’ve got an animatronic Santa sitting on a treasure chest of toys that didn’t just materialize out of no where and enough seasonally colored hand towels that I could use a new one each day from Thanksgiving to New Year’s and never need to wash them. But to my recollection, we didn’t buy any of it. So either a) I’m some kind of somnolent kleptomaniac that picks up holiday home accessories like those poor Ambien people that sleep-eat (waking up next to a naked pile of turkey bones that have been picked cleaner than any vulture ever dreamed) or b) cobbler elves visit my basement at night and leave stuff in the boxes marked "Christmas".
All the stuff mentioned above, though, pales in comparison to our collection of Christmas tree ornaments. The Puddinette and I have been married for over 10 years. In all that time, I think that maybe on one occasion, our first Christmas together, did we go out and buy a few boxes of generic glass ornaments.
And yet somehow, when I opened our two ornament boxes on Sunday, it seemed very much as if I could have driven to the local live tree retail stand and fully decorated the three or four dozen Douglas firs they had on hand with bulbs to spare. I swear those things have to have been reproducing during the 11 long, boring storage months where there’s just nothing else to do in their stuffy plastic bin.
Honestly, though, I know better. In fact, as tongue-and-cheek as I’ve been above, I actually do remember nearly each and every ornament we drew out of that box. Grammy Puddin gives me a Seuss ornament every year because I’ll always be fan, and the Puddinette has amassed quite a collection of Precious Moments ones in the decade since we were married. The kids each have several denoting their first Christmas and receive some new ones each year. Nearly every last ornament hanging on our tree has some memory connected with it or a sentimental attachment.
Do we put up all our ornaments? No, because after more than a decade of marriage and a barrel full of children, with everyone acquiring or crafting several new pieces each year, it’s simply not possible anymore to fit them all on the tree. We are now in the enviable position of being able to afford to pick and and choose the ones that matter to us. No more generic colored glass balls, or shiny blue icicles from a pack of 12.
But we do have plenty of little hand outlines made into ornaments, preserved for posterity, laminated pictures of tiny faces that aren’t so tiny anymore, and dozens of other mismatched, yet meaningful, adormments that together have tripled our collection.
And we wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even if it ultimately means needing one of those PODS boxes to store them all.