We put up our Christmas tree this evening. It is our tradition to put the tree up on the "Rose Sunday", a marital compromise between the day after Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve. I love the house decorated for Christmas. The decorations make me feel like a kid again, especially when Nat King Cole is crooning the Christmas Song in the background. This childlike glee can be directly contrasted with the grown-up anxiety I feel knowing that the girls are going to break my ornaments. Ultimately it is just a matter of which one(s) and when. It's probably best not to get attached to any of them, but holiday sentiments tend to run deep.
We took down Izzy's crib yesterday afternoon. I always expect this particular transition into "big-kid" to be a lot harder for the kids than it turns out to be. I have issues--not them. She collected the nuts and bolts and put them in a ziploc bag, and then waved bye to her crib as it went upstairs into the attic. I stalked her bedroom door last night after bedtime, impatiently waiting for screams of a toddler needing comfort, but the cries never came. Sniffle, sniffle. My girls are getting so big.
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