I think we’re ready.
We’ve made and assembled pleasant treats for the breakfast stockings. We’ve wrapped and tissued and bagged all manner of wondrous gifties. All the little ferrety hidey holes have been raided, and each person’s secret stash of Christmas joys have been labeled and added to the pile of presents at the hearth.
We’ve lit the candles, and strung lights around each window, even in the Vegetable (which is really a vestibule (which is fancy for “enclosed front porch”), but when Spicy decides on a term, it often sticks. She’s really cute.) I’m seriously considering leaving the lights up in the Vegetable all year round, as the glow is so welcoming and festive.
We’ve decorated and hung the wreaths, including one on the back door for Spicy’s hens to enjoy. “My sweet little chickens need Christmas too, Mom!” says she, and who am I to argue?
My Nativity creche, made by the hands of the Eldest and her Tall, Dark, and Slightly Neanderthal father, is arranged on the piano.
And, we have decorated the Yule Mustache.
Having no floor space in our charming little cottage, we debated such solutions as hanging a tree upside down from the ceiling (still no airspace in which to hang it) or even stapling it flat to the ceiling (crossed off as too dang weird.)
No, this year, we skipped a tree.
We went Pre-Prince-Albert (as dear Albert was the particular German fellow who brought the Christmas tree into popular usage outside of Germany, in the late 1840s), and instead, decorated the mantel (cunningly made by my own Prince Consort) with a large evergreen bough that looks just a bit like a lovely mustache, waxed neatly to points at each end. Our Yule Mustache is cheerful and pleasing, and I’m not sure I want to go back to a tree, ever! (I’ll bend, though, if the family decides they want one whenever we get more floor space.)
Rebel against the Holiday Industrial Complex: allow yourself to simplify, and enjoy the beauty of our season of holy anticipation and rejoicing!