Our Christmas tree this year … it’s a lovely one. Huge and full, covered with the salt dough ornaments we made as a family a few weeks ago. This year, for the first time in three years, we used the glass bulbs Brian and I bought the Christmas after we were married.

I haven’t posted pictures of the tree because decorating has been a two-week-long festival of craftasticity. But we were getting close! So very close.

Today, I was out and about, trying to squeeze in everything I needed to do on Clara Jane’s final school day before the holidays. I had so much to do that I figured I wouldn’t go home until after I picked her up. But I forgot to put together her teachers’ gifts, so I came home about 90 minutes before school ended to finish the gifts, eat some lunch, and relish the last peace and quiet I’ll know until January 5th.

This is the carnage I discovered when I walked in the door:

Not the laundry and crafty shit. That’s exactly where I left it. The tree isn’t where I left it. Nor are the shattered ornaments on the floor. Oh, but that’s just a sampling of the mosaic of broken glass, salt dough, and once-beautiful glittery snowflake/star that littered the house! It spread over the living room, dining room, and hallway. Wee tiny, nearly invisible shards of glass and dough, perfect for those barefoot nights in front of the fireplace. Who wants a tetanus shot for Christmas? I do! I do!

I didn’t see the act that led to our tree hitting the floor, but I’m pretty sure it was the work of a nard. Murphy. Our stupid little idiot of a dog who eats everything that doesn’t bite her first and, for the first time in five years, noticed the presence of a tree in our house.

She’s been in this position since the tree came into the house on December 7th:

She only looks away from the tree, always with that guilty “Village of the Damned” look on her face, when we tell her to get the hell away from the tree.

We’ve busted her trying to eat the ornaments.

There’s no way Romi, our cat, could have caused this. That would require moving off the radiator where she lives. Chloe the Basset was snoozing in the basement. But Murphy … Murphy met me at the door, dropped her empty little head, tucked tail, and led me to the living room before making a break for it to our bedroom, where she jumped on the bed (forbidden) and tried to hide under the blankets.

While I was sad to lose so many ornaments, and furious about the mess, my main concern was how Clara Jane would react to the carnage. She loves that tree and all the work we’ve done on it. “Don’t you think Santa is going to love our tree?” she asks 238 times a day while gazing at it.

Right now, no. Right now, Santa is going to hate our tree and spend an hour throwing coal at Murphy, and I’m not going to stop him.

I called Brian at work. He rushed home to help with the mess while I picked up Clara Jane. By the time we got home Brian had thrown away the last of the broken ornaments. She was pretty excited to get to decorate the tree again, even though there’s not much left in the way of decorations, and the lights and garlands are all crooked. It’ll have to do.

I thought about inserting one part of the tree into another part of Murphy to replace the broken snowflake/star, but I was too damn tired. Instead of violence, I went to bed. We had to be at Clara Jane’s school holiday program at 6:30.

Brian woke me up three times. I had shut down mentally and wanted nothing more than hibernation. At 5:30 I finally drug my ass out of bed, glanced at the paper with the pageant information and HOLY SHIT WE HAVE TO BE THERE IN HALF AN HOUR!

Brian shoved the ingredients of the tuna casserole he was making into the fridge and started dressing Clara Jane. I tried to brush the nap out of my teeth, and wrangled my hair into something other than bedhead. For dinner, Clara Jane had a few bites of last night’s leftover grilled cheese. I had a cookie.

Seeing Clara Jane on stage, ringing her bell, holding hands with her pal Finnegan, and not making a break for it when it was her turn to take the mic and reveal what she wants for Christmas (Art supplies! We’re back to art supplies!) undid all of the dog-hating, tree-falling Scroogedness that had taken up residence in my two-sizes-too-small heart.

The highlight of the night? Clara Jane holding Finnegan’s left hand while her friend Vivi held his right hand. Later, Finnegan’s mom told me that at that moment his dad asked her, “Hey. Who are the chicks?”

Sorry Finn. She’s interested in another man.