Before J and I had children, when December rolled around I remember strolling through department stores admiring the beautifully decorated Christmas trees. Each one seemed to drip of glass ornaments and polished beads. Draped in gold trimmed satin ribbon, they hung off perfect proportioned branches. I really wanted one of those swanky trees.
But I knew it would have to wait until we moved out of our tiny two bedroom apartment or after we purchased a much-needed new couch or could afford artwork to cover our whiter than white walls.
And as life would have it, we bought a two-story house and a long kitchen table. Then we went on to purchase car seats and strollers and baby dolls and baseball gloves. There were no longer conversations about swanky trees wrapped in satin ribbon.
Today I saw one of those picturesque trees outside a store window. I stopped in mid stride to admire it.
But as I walked through our den and stepped over a pile of building blocks and one lone shoe I caught a glimpse of our own tree. It doesn’t drip of polished beads or lavish ornaments, but Princess Barbies and painted green wreaths made from chubby baby hands. Stories and memories are nestled between branches. And I’m sure this is the tree that I wanted all along.