Christmas Decorations

We were putting the Christmas decorations up, which, as you may or may not be aware, is a Big Deal. Exciting. Something everyone looks forward to. Don't they? Okay. Maybe not everyone. Not people with social lives. Or money to spend. Or 'A Life'. But us lonely bankrupt losers love it.

Yet this time, not only was I excited; I was giddy. Light-headed even. Because this time THE POOP WOULD ACTUALLY GET THEM. She would marvel at the twinkling lights, coo at the glittery tinsel and be wowed by the straightness of my blu-tacing.
She fell asleep at 2pm and we decided to go for it - in the approximate one hour ten minutes we would have until she returned from the land of nod.

After roping Dave into digging the decorations out of the loft for me, he padded about, did a bit of rummaging, shouted "are you ever going to use this Thighmaster?" and began to shuffle down the ladders bearing box after box of dusty smelling tinsel. Meanwhile, I fired up the Christmas CD and whipped up some shortbread biscuits to wang in the oven. Then the Carnival Of Tangled Crap began.
Long lost novelties were rediscovered; the purchases of various items reminisced; bent antler-ed reindeers were bent back in the other direction (and sellotaped when said bending proved too vigorous). Ornaments were moved "a little bit to the left...no, back a bit to your right...right STOP, stop there..actually, no it looks stupid there". I was getting all my own way and it was going swimmingly. Then just because Dave had inhaled a bit of the fibre glass insulation while digging about in the loft, he had to go and milk it by selfishly insisted on coughing his way right through Shakin' Stevens, to the point that I had to get him a drink of water and skip the CD back a track, which meant I would not end up making it to East 17 before The Poop woke up.
Which completely ruined everything.

After hearing a growing assortment of rustles emanate from the baby monitor, we hurriedly chucked up the last few pieces of spangly tat, and went to fetch Her Poopship.
I collected her from the cot, slipped a Santa hat on her head, and descended the stairs with baited breath. What would she make of it? Would she like it? Would she be frightened of the lights? Excited about the candles? Distressed by the giant socks hanging from the fire?
We walked in, Dave switched on the tree lights, and we let her go.

Tottering about the lounge, she moved, notepad and pencil in hand, from stockings to tree to ornaments to tinsel. The fact she stopped to pick her nose, then subsequently smeared it up the corner of the coffee table suggested she was thoroughly underwhelmed by the whole experience.
Oh. That is a shame. I felt sure she'd love it but...I know!
I raced into the kitchen, grabbed a fresh piece of shortbread from the plate and thrust it in her non-plussed directions. She took one bite and...

Then she sat in a corner, her back to the rest of the room, playing with a set of keys.

Betty + much anticipated Christmas traditions = epic fail.