I love my kids. Really, I do. But fuck me dead if they didn’t almost kill the tree within 48 hours of it going up.
Witness the destruction.
Increasingly denuded tree – the work of a hungry dragon, apparently.
Completely denuded baubles – LD explained to me he was just playing with his balls. Oookay.
Within three days, they had defeated me. That night, B and I moved the damned tree.
The tree with almost no decorations from kid-reach down.
The tree that cost me a lazy 50 bucks just because it is real and smells good.
The tree that was dying before we ever strapped it to the roof of our car.
It does smell mighty good though.
So the tree is at the front door. Downstairs and safely away from the main living action which is located upstairs (stupid topsy-turvy house). The expensive dead tree is downstairs and away from dragons and little boys who play with their balls – little boys who can but stand at the top of the staircase, hands clutching the safety gate that seeks to deny them, eyes gazing longingly at the splendid dead tree below.
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The Little Mumma 