Ahhh (that was a contended sigh. No, really it was ….).
The Festive Season is upon us, which strongly implies it will be, you know, festive.
I’m apparently not up on the latest definition of this word, but I do my best.
Godzilla had a bye with basketball this morning, but was off on a birthday party instead. This meant one less bout of running around for me. Still, I got to do the gymnastics craziness. Also, some bread and milk were in order. And the house needed tidying for yet another open for inspection. Best I stay away as long as possible, really.
We sorted the house and figured it might be a good time to secure ourselves a tree. If nothing else, this sorted activities for the afternoon and we would have some moments free of “Can we play the Wii?”
Given we had to be out of the house anyway, we wandered up and ordered out tree from the local green grocer. A slightly smaller tree this year than previous years. But a tree, no less.
We also took the opportunity to “do” the Santa photos. It is something that started off being all sentimental and good motherish, and has now turned into a “because I can” moment … because I can.
Godzilla still being at the party, we made the most of introducing Chippie to Santa, which he took to my climbing up my body and burying himself in my neck. He did make a terribly good attempt at crawling up my left nostril, and, had I let him, he may very well have succeeded. Monkey Boy embarked on a long list of Lego Star Wars requests and quite possibly enlightened Santa in the sets available. Shortly thereafter, Godzilla was returned to us and the Santa Photos were had.
These, as always, involve Monkey Boy performing beautifully, because he’s worked
me it out, Godzilla kinda of getting it, but also getting bored and looking in every direction but at the camera with a nice smile on his face, and Chippie attempting to climb off whilst screaming and me saying “just take the photos anyway”.
This job ticked off the list, we head home and find out tree waiting for us, freshly delivered from around the corner. It was erected and that is how we ended up with sugar all over the floor … don’t ask.
I put on some Metallica very loudly, to relieve some stress, whilst all the boys head off to storage to collect the Christmas Decorations.
(Yes, the storage where we had everything ready to go for when our house sold a month ago. But didn’t.)
Two boxes made it back, one of which said “Santa Sacks” and was probably the one I really didn’t want, and the other labelled “Christmas Decorations” and definitely the one I wanted.
Thus we commenced the Family Tradition of Decorating the Christmas Tree. This year it involved me, atop the ladder with Christmas lights wrapped around my body, attempting to prevent Chippie from putting “twinsel” on the tree before the lights.
There is a procedure you know!
I also had to stop Godzilla from turning the lights on whilst they were wrapped around this body and not that of the tree, and Monkey Boy from driving me fucking nuts!
We added twinsel and various decorations whilst Grumpy Pants was up another ladder, attaching lights to the front of the house. And swearing a lot. Possibly more than me. Which is impressive, if you think about it.
Upon dropping a ball and it shattering over the floor and installing a part of it in my foot, again, I look up and realise out tree has no balls.
The carton with the Christmas balls in it is still in storage.
I don’t mind. One shattered ball in the foot is more than enough and I pretend it does not matter. Particularly as I’m kneeling on shattered ball and attempting to sweep it up from incomprehensible places.
Grumpy’s grumbles have increased, possibly due to the rain that has come along to assist him in his light-putting-up duties. It is, despite electrical cords and nail guns (which, by the way, has decided to stop working, despite its only being used once a year), safer than having the kids around “helping” and I leave him to it.
Let’s face it, I can stand around and be sworn at any time, I don’t need to put up with it whilst we’re being all festive.
Grumpy vanishes shortly afterwards. I know this because Godzilla has come in complaining he is not allowed to assist. And it’s not fair. Etc.
We do a walk around of the house. No Grumpy. We call his name. No Grumpy. I double check to see he hasn’t electrocuted himself and is not hanging from the beams around the front veranda.
He returns some half an hour later, the neighbours staple gun in hand, and swears on his first kathunk.
He has managed to cause the neighbour’s staple gun to stop working.
He is talented.
Finally, our ball-less tree and lights are completed, a teensy lightbulb smooshed into the tessellated tiles just outside the front door.
I wander across the road with my children to take in the spectacular display that is our house; a string of red lights strung across the front of the house, with multicoloured lights that run through a series of flashes, twinkles and fading in and outs hang from the beams across the front. The lights on the left are 5 seconds behind the cascade of lights on the right, and when they transition, it’s all out of sync.
That takes real talent.
A family wander past us, and I beam at them, so proud am I of our efforts.
I am berated by a small child in a stroller, pushed, suddenly faster, by his father, as his mother grabs the hand of his older sister.
“They don’t have shoes on!” he tells his mum.
No, they don’t.
Also, I am wearing my pyjama pants, a nice top and am holding a glass of wine.
Welcome to the neighbourhood. And Merry Christmas!