I was planning to write a flashback friday post, but there is one more Christmas thing I wanted to talk about. Since it's nearly the end of January, I figured I better do that now. There's a little bit of the past in this story too though, so it fits.
I have always had a very hard time with change. No, make that a terrible, awful, horrible time with change. I am better at handling it now that I'm older, but it is still hard for me.
My parents used to own an Oldsmobile Cutlass. I have a picture of it, but in the picture my sister is bending over to look under the car. I don't think she'd be very happy if I posted it.
It's the first car I remember from my childhood. One night my parents went out with my aunt and uncle while my sister and I stayed with my grandma.
In the morning, I found out that they had been in a car crash. Everyone was fine, but the car would need some repairs. Specifically, the door on the side where I always sat was smashed in. My door was smashed. I was devastated. My door was going to be replaced with a new, different door. Yeah, I know that's strange.
Anyway, my parents were so utterly amazing that in light of my shrieking protests, they opted to replace the outer part of the door, and let me keep the inside part. The part with the cracked handle and the hole. This small act made me feel as if I mattered. I felt understood.
So it was with this in mind that I allowed our Christmas tree to stay up for a month after Christmas, even though I'm a take-it-down-the-next-day kind of gal.
You see, I have brought into this world a child like myself in many ways.
We put away the Christmas decorations very slowly. Finally all that was left was the tree. My kid said that it looked so sad and lonely, so he redecorated it himself. He used milk jug seals that we save for crafts.
Finally the tree is down.
Now if only we could do something about Housefly-itis. You know, housefly-itis? It's when you get sad every winter when the house flies begin to fly slowly and clunk around, banging into windows. I used to sob about these sad flies. Now they don't bother me too much, but my boy...whew. I think he inherited this disturbing condition from me. He doesn't cry about the flies, but he makes them tiny beds out of tissues. He calls them his buddies. He tries to take care of them and prevent the inevitable. Meanwhile, I try to prevent him witnessing the inevitable by rushing around the house with the dustbuster to sweep up any poor, lost fly souls.
I love my little sentimentalist.