Yesterday I thought that Andrew and I were running ahead of schedule on the Christmas preparation front.
This morning, I come downstairs to walk the dog, and Andrew is standing in the living room in the midst of Christmas carnage. The Christmas tree was completely bare and on the floor, and the stand was in pieces.
This is what our dining room table looked like:
The stand of the tree broke, sending the entire tree backward into the couch. Andrew had already de-decorated it because he is awesome.
There were some casualties. The most painful one is this:
Poor Albert Pujols lost a head and an arm. Knowing him, this will not impact his performance in baseball games. Andrew had separated out the broken ornaments, and we'll decide if they can be repaired or if they need to be thrown away. I know we lost a few glass balls, but I'm not sure what else can be superglued.
As I was eating breakfast, I was thinking about the jars I finished for Andrew's mom's side. I was assaulted by one of those thoughts that comes with a slight tightening in your chest.
At least one of those recipes had to be halved to fit into a pint jar. Did I change the instructions to reflect that the ingredients to be added to the jar were half of the original recipe?
No. No, I did not.
Sometime this week we'll hopefully get a new tree and I'll redo the instructions for the jars.
Touche, first Monday in December.