I went home this weekend partly out of necessity (brother’s birthday, laundry) and partly out of a simple desire to be around my parents, siblings, grandparents and VR (the dog). Plus, I was jealous of my sister’s texts and Facebook updates about the fire going in our fireplace.

Home feels like Christmas. The tree is up and decorated with lights, ornaments and some Christmas cards. The nacimiento (sans baby Jesus, of course) is in its place, but this year isn’t surrounded by the elaborate Santa’s village. Dad strung up the lights on Saturday and put up our stockings. There’s a wreath on the door. Two Christmas lists made by Adrian and Lori are on the fridge. And of course, we watched a Christmas movie (Four Christmases).

I don’t decorate my apartment much. I’m not even sure where I’ve placed my mini Christmas tree. Thus, I’ll decorate my blog with pictures of Christmas past.

(Sidenote: judging from Hollywood movies, I’d assume that all white people dread spending time with their families during the holidays.)

Happy 31st birthday, Danny!

I vaguely remember the day dad lined us all up for this photo: Mother’s Day 1984.

It was like a day at Olan Mills, except dad was the photographer and the background was a dark blanket. Dad took photos of all his siblings’ families. And then there was the requisite shot of all the nietos, the cousins.

I don’t know if this was the outtake or if there’s a photo that exists where all 15 of us are actually looking at the camera and smiling. I doubt it. And if it did exist, I wouldn’t want it.