Merry Tropical Christmas

Oh, Christmas. What can I say about you that hasn't been said before. 

Not much, probably. 

So maybe I'll just show you some pictures.

Lame. Lazy blogger cop out.

Okay, a charming preamble first, perhaps? Fine.

And we're off.

Christmas this year was wonderful, but with a touch of melancholy. My whole family was back in my home town for Christmas. Like everyone. All of them. This is something that NEVER happens any more.

As is tradition, they all gathered at my Auntie's farm house, just like like so many Christmases past. There was a 32 pound turkey, (if you're metric, that's basically gigantic), tractor sleigh rides of questionable safety, a house full of children, and three very empty (figurative) seats.

I really wanted to be back there, feeling the shock of cold in my lungs, and the warmth of family around the huge farmhouse table.

But I also wanted to be here, in my new home, with my husband.


Expat dichotomy.

The only solution to this situation? Do the hell out of Christmas.

See. Doing the hell out of Christmas. I mean, COME ON!, I even made my own crackers. To balance my (imagined) domestic goddessness, please note that there are toddler finger holes in the pie, and none of my glassware matched. That's Real life.

I decided to host Christmas Eve dinner. I have never hosted Christmas dinner. Nor cooked a turkey. (Thank goodness for Mr. Chef.) The last time I was home for Christmas at my Aunt's farmhouse, I was seated at the children's table. This time I was the host. Believe me, the irony was not lost.

I filled our little apartment with lovely new friends, and little babies (which thrilled Stella to no end). We watched a children's choir sing Christmas carols in the hotel lobby (Stella danced her little heart out). We ate our faces off. And the kids tore around the house until they all passed out somewhere around 11 pm. 




Sadly Mr. Chef was working on Christmas Eve (such is the life of chefery), but he did come up to our apartment to cook the turkey, supervise the carving (not a single person in the room knew how to put knife to bird), and then, I'm embarrassed to admit, did the dishes for a meal that he did not even eat while I went to bed. 

The next morning we opened stockings socks (sadly our stockings did not make it in the move, a fact which I discovered only at midnight Christmas Eve. I considered {briefly} sewing some tropical festive batik present sacks, and then thought about my soft pillow.)

In addition to our very non-traditional fishmas stockings, it should also be noted that my child wore this "pwincess" dress for two days straight. I tried to take it off while she slept, but she shot awake and abruptly reprimanded me. 

There was room service breakfast (what a treat!!). Chocolate. Chocolate. Chocolate. Diabetic coma. More presents. And then naps all around. We rounded out the day with chocolate milkshakes, aannnnnnnd salads for dinner.


Waffles. Pastries. Tropical fruits, that like, COME FROM THE TROPICS!! I have yet to stop counting my lucky stars. 

  Stella made out like a bandit in the art supply department. 

Not that I really condone weaponry as a preferred category of toy, but this bubble gun is about the coolest thing ever. Okay. Fine. Whatever. I also want a nurf gun. For me. Santa did not deliver. Jerk.

 Nine out of ten presents are for Miss Stella Bella.

On Christmas all of the usual restrictions go out the window: chocolate for breakfast; party dress pajamas; iPad viewing in the stroller in the living room. Because. I have no idea.

A lazy Christmas afternoon brought to you by a tropical rainstorm.

Testing out her new poster paints. On wrapping paper. Because. 


So there you have it. Our little Christmas. We missed our family, but made the most of this amazing tropical life. New friends. Good food. Christmas carols. Poster paint. What more could one ask for?



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