All week the boys had been asking to put up the Christmas tree, and Saturday was the day. A day full of promise—idyllic family memories to be made, stories of ornaments from years gone by, our favorite carols playing.
Back in 2006, we decided to switch to a smaller tree that we set on the piano, out of the reach of little toddler hands. And since we’ve had a toddler every year since, we haven’t yet returned to the full-sized model, mainly because I’m too sentimental to risk family heirlooms in the hands of people who can’t wipe their own noses yet.
Everyone had a part in the tree trimming. Ken and I got the glamor jobs—hauling the boxes out of the attic and untangling strands of lights, while the children claimed their favorites from the ornament box and surreptitiously switched the song to Feliz Navidad.
Reaching
Geneva began the decorating, climbing the step stool and barely reaching the lowest branches. The boys followed, placing a series of homemade and indestructible ornaments in the one reachable lower quadrant of the tree.
Then we graduated to glass snowflakes and glass balls, and finally, to the Baby’s First Year ornaments. (We have about 10 for the first two children and one each for the last two.) My favorite is a Belleek rocking horse given to Tennyson, which I placed oh-so-carefully on the upper branches.
Tennyson Trimming
When I returned to the box my hand hovered over my favorite childhood ornament: Humpty Dumpty, a rotund figure with spindly arms and legs. He hadn’t been on the tree in five years. Could I risk it this year?
My indecision didn’t last long. Behind me Spencer had climbed the stool with another ornament, when suddenly there was a tremendous crash. I whirled around and there he stood, stunned, arm outstretched into thin air. The tree sprawled in a pathetic heap below him, a jumble of cords, dislocated ornaments, and shards of glass. We both cried.
Had a Great Fall
Sadly, the Belleek ornament did not survive. As I swept up the glass, Benjamin asked, “Mommy, is this the worst Christmas ever?” And despite my tears, I could joyfully answer that it was not.
For some reason, my mind went back to our years of infertility, when I had longed for little voices and busy little hands. Made all the sweeter by the wait, they have become the real ornaments of our life.
Irish porcelain is lovely, but I wouldn’t trade it for the mess and noise of our busy boys. All the same, Humpty Dumpty will rest safely in his box for another year.
A Busy Boy Wannabe