And so the tragedy must begin.
Soon, I’ll strip my living room of its holiday clothes.
Every year, I pull out my Christmas decorations from the attic. (Technically, Chris pulls them out, but potato, potato.) My living room prances in excitement. We’re changing from the Sunday dress into our comfy clothes.
You see, my house’s natural state is Christmas: the trees, the nativities, the Dicken’s Village (I got a new figurine of a book signing this year), the snowmen, more snowmen (it looks like Frosty threw-up in here), the lights, the decked halls. This is how it’s meant to be. So when the twelve days of Christmas are up and Epiphany season begins, changing out of this attire is like convincing a toddler that she needs to remove her favorite pink princess shirt and red polka dot pants because of some crazy fashion notions Mommy has.
I’ll have to say goodbye to Theresa. I’ll have to put away Maggie, Rose, and Henry (the three small artificial trees). I’ll have to pack our nativities and snowmen and Christmas music boxes that sing "O Come, All Ye Faithful" and "Joy to the World." And I’ll pull out the Sunday clothes.
