I feel like I’m living in that folktale—you know the one, with the big family in the tiny little house, where everyone is so squished that there’s barely enough room to eat breakfast? And the parents go to the village wise woman, tell her they’re cramped and discontent, ask her what to do; she tells them to bring the chickens into the house. They come back the next day, she tells them to bring the family goat into the house. Then the cow. And so on, until there’s not room to eat breakfast at all, let alone walk or sit or read a book, and they’re no happier than they were to begin with. So she tells them to take all the animals back out of the house, and: magic! There’s enough room to eat breakfast again, and now everyone appreciates it. They’re all happy, and all it took was a week of living with a goat to be thankful for what they had.

That’s the story I’m living in.

Except I didn’t bring farm animals into my house. I brought in Christmas decorations.

Now they’re gone, packed away until next year, and the tree was taken away to be turned into mulch.

I wasn’t actually discontent before, but oh my goodness, NOW I CAN BREATHE THERE IS SPACE IN MY HOUSE AGAIN. Ahhh.

The kids, of course, were not thrilled to see the decorations go. This morning when we went out for a walk, there were dried-up trees lining the curbs, waiting for the tree-recycling truck, and the kids were more than a little sad to see them. But a while later, playing on the newly-found floor of the living room (it’s no longer buried in pine needles, hurrah!), Owen said: “You know what? It’s not the worst thing ever, having to get rid of the tree.”

Boy’s got a point, is all I’m saying.