First Ornaments: Holidays Are Really Fucking Hard

Sometimes, the best you can do is put a few ornaments on the tree, your first ornaments.

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Santa was a crazy looking, pink waxy dude in the late 60s. He wore tinsel and fur. Don't judge. He tried his best to bring the cheer as I pulled the next few ornaments out of the giant storage box filled with memories.

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This was made for me for my very first Christmas. It is my favorite ornament.  It is metal with rivets. The man who made it for me died a long time ago. I still remember driving by their house in Los Angeles, the steep hills, and the bricks.

I have ornaments from every Christmas of my life. Some years I got more than others, but it has made for a very full Christmas tree, and I have continued the tradition for my children. I also started the tradition with Bob when we started dating. That means the box of memories was filled with more than just my ornaments; it was filled with forty-two years of stories, love, babies, marriage, and the memory of the last time I opened that box. I didn't get too far into that box before I had to stop, give myself permission to take a time out, and ask for help.

Peanut and her boyfriend took over the ornament hanging for me on the big tree, the kids each decorated the trees in their bedrooms, and I took over putting up the other indoor decorations. Those don't hold the same sentimental meaning for me, I guess, or maybe it's the smaller volume. Either way, it worked.

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It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

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Snowman is ready to partay. Or perhaps join you for a cranberry margarita. (Sorry, I can't bring myself to call them margs; it makes me feel like I'm calling a friend by a nickname she can't stand but is too shy to tell me she hates.)

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Have I mentioned lately how much I love NOT camping?