Today we ventured into town for provisions and ended up buying ourselves a substantial piece of the Christmas pie. A tree, live garland, lights for said tree and more for outside, ornaments and all the necessary accessories. We've never really done this before, and wouldn't have were it not the first Christmas that Poopies is really able to participate, and therefore a lot more fun. Plus, before we were cool city people, and eschewed the over-commercialization of a once-pagan-then-turned-Christian holiday that promoted the destruction of entire forests of trees in their youthful prime. Don't ask me why none of this was discussed this time around, having kids really does change everything. We couldn't have been happier to plunk down our cash for that severed tree.
And so, while decorating the tree, I was struck with the pangs of tradition not yet made. Like everyone who celebrates, my family had a big box of ornaments---a collection of weird school projects, gifts from family, priceless heirlooms from relatives long past---the nice thing was that we saw these same objects every year, and I suppose that is the root of tradition. Our tree is mostly ornaments that were bought...today. I'm grateful that there are a few that my mother has sent over the years since I left home, which I realize in retrospect was excellent foresight on her part. Mothers understand this sort of thing. And I know that we will collect our own big box of oddities, and hold them up each year and say "Remember when...?" and eventually I'll look back and feel warm that we've created our own tradition that our kids will take for granted until they leave home and put up their own oddly non-sentimental conifer.