"Mom, let's buy icicles for the tree this year."
'Yea, let's do that.' I jumped at the chance to be free and spontaneous and let go of rules of my childhood.
Rules like no icicles, no messes, no presents left under the tree past 11:00am Christmas Day. Borderline OCD stuff that has molded me into the neurotic mom I am today.
Sure, let's throw caution to the wind and drape our real live Christmas tree in sparkly fake icicles. Because why not?
Why not? Why not? I'll tell you why not. I'll tell you the secret my dad was privy to way back in 1979 when I, an innocent and clueless child, pleaded for icicles and was a met with a resounding 'no'.
They don't stay on the tree. Nope.
Late at night, while we dream of sugarplums and crap, they slip off the piney needles of the tree and slither into shoes, drape themselves on couches, and onto clothes.
Icicles are the hot mess my dad swore they were. Of course, I never believed him, because what did he even know?
Apparently, a lot.
