I'm a writer, people. The only reason I include pictures is that I have been made aware that there are certain types of brains that neeeed more than a good font to be fulfilled. I hereby dedicate every lousy picture I will ever post to those particular brains (you know who you are).
So. One of the best things about me is my houseful of boys. I birthed one, married another and was thereby (ridiculously) blessed with two more. Let me just tell you that
I LOVE A BOY HOUSE.
Don't be silly. I don't love everything about it. Namely:
1. bunched up stinky socks
2. toilets
3. neanderthal table manners
4. body odor, body noises, and jokes about body odor and noises.
When it comes to decorating for Christmas, however, I'm thrilled. Let me show you why.
This is our first Christmas as a family, 2002. We had married in June and immediately moved to Germany. Combining households makes for a ton of ornaments, and rather than sort his past from mine, we let the kids go for broke. I loved this tree, cut from our landlord's lot. I remember the shocked looks on Harold's and Petra's faces when they paid a visit. It does look a little bit like Christmas exploded, doesn't it? They stared open-mouthed, while we stood by, proud as peacocks. When we returned the visit we saw their orderly tree, decorated respectfully with a few wooden ornaments. I was witnessing a major culture gap, but I didn't care. That, my friends, was a happy tree.
Fast-forward eight Christmases, and you'll notice a little more reserve, a little more style from the decorators (who have full license throughout the house). But notice if you will...
a dozen angels, each unwilling to set out on her own. When questioned about his tactic, the decorator shrugged. When encouraged to spread the love to the rest of the tree, he declined. I thought later about moving them myself, but quickly decided not to. Who wants a perfect, symmetrically decorated tree? Not me. I'd rather have a crazy one, decorated with love.
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