Yesterday I put up the Christmas tree. Yeah, I know, it's not even Thanksgiving yet. But I'm so excited to celebrate the season with my family, and we're hosting Thanksgiving, so I am in a bit of a rush to set a festive atmosphere. I am waiting until after Thanksgiving to put up the ornaments though.
Anyway, the boy woke up on the wrong side of the bed after taking a long afternoon nap. He would just randomly scream at nothing, wail after stubbing his toe or getting frustrated with a toy. I told him he could help me set up the tree, and he was certainly interested in playing with the tree stand while I hauled the pieces upstairs. After finally coaxing the stand out of his hands (more screaming), I got the tree set up and told him to come look at it. He preferred to play on the stairs, so I left him alone. After a while, he made his way up the stairs talking to me or himself.
After a few minutes I realized it was very quiet. I walked around the kitchen corner to find him standing still, staring open-mouthed at the Christmas tree. Six feet of gleaming white plastic with brilliant, twinkling lights in front of the living room window. I smiled to myself. This was the tree that we bought when I was in the midst of depression in 2010, as it felt like a beacon of hope.
The season of wonder. The one I've been waiting for so I can finally see it through his eyes. The chance to show how beautiful the whole world is because we're celebrating the birth of Jesus by exchanging presents and baking cookies and decorating everything from the state capitol building to the artwork on the refrigerator. The season of joy, love, and hope.
