As I take down my Christmas tree, it is with a strange mix of relief and regret. Every year it's the same: Putting up the tree is wonderful - we light a fire, make hot chocolate, put a Christmas CD on and set to work. There's always a point, just after the lights and earth tone baubles, when I want to stop (I remember my mother reaching the same conclusion when I was a child) because it looks so elegant and sophisticated. But the kids always push on with the preschool creations, the wooden donkey, the metal airplanes, the crochet angels from grandma and the Star Wars figurines (from the bar scene in Episode 4) from my brother, to name but a few. Every ornament has a tale to tell.
[Hmmm, I wonder if my parents still have that weird-looking gingerbread man that my brother dubbed "the octopus" ...]
Anyway, it's a happy mess and cleaning it up - which always ends up being a solo endeavor - is so bittersweet. BUT I have my son's magic-themed birthday party here in a week and, digging deep to rustle up some enthusiasm, I push onwards and upwards. I could really use a little magic myself if you know what I mean.
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