The first year after my husband died, I had absolutely zero interest in Christmas, but I still had a six-year-old. I acquired a tree, dragged all the lights and ornaments out, and let the kid have at it.
It was a six foot tree, and all the lights and ornaments were on the one section of tree she could reach, standing directly in front of it. I didn’t care, and she thought it was beautiful. We still laugh about that tree.
Letting her decorate the tree alone has remained a tradition, though. Acquiring the tree, arguing her grandiose dreams down to what we can afford, always runs out my Christmas spirit. We get it home and get it up and I want nothing more to do with it for days.
Anyway. It’s up. It’s decorated. The roommate is much better at it than either the kid or I am, so we have the pretty in the living room now.
I love the pretty.
What are you talking about, that’s a completely normal picture of a family Christmas tree. Also a completely normal attempt to quiet the child with the heaviest object to hand, in this case a copy of Les Miserables.