We went all lumberjack again this year and chopped down our Christmas tree today.
The experience is never as romantic and whimsical as we think it is going to be. Last year was the first year we did it. The husband wanted to start a family tradition so we loaded a sick, snotty baby and a sick, snotty mommy in the car to get a tree. After 10 minutes in the trees, I might have said something like, "Just pick out a damn tree. I feel like crap."
'Tis the season.
This year went a little better especially since the weather was decent with temps in the 50s. We thought Peanut might enjoy a ride in the sled so we took out the saw (see we are good parents) and put her in. After she fell over when I began pulling her, she decided it was not her cup of tea and wanted out.
We lasted about 20 minutes this time until Peanut had Enough of mama and dada debating the girth, tallness and fullness of each tree.
Of course we got the tree home and it needed almost a foot cut off.
Let me just say here that I am a Christmas tree snob. It is genetic. At some point in my childhood, my parents began collecting Christoper Radko ornaments. Their tree now could probably put Peanut through at least one year of state college.
And while our tree is nowhere near my parents, I still like my trees to look coordinated. We either have to have all glass ornaments or all other kinds of ornaments. I used to relegate to just gold and red ornaments but I've allowed green, silver and blue. I've already decided Peanut can have her own tree when she is older to put her homemade ornaments on.
While I was decorating the tree and trying to teach Peanut the importance of "Look, don't touch," the husband asked me what I will do when Peanut wants to pick out a family tree that resembles Charlie Brown's.
Going for something I knew he could get on board with, I said, "It is important that we teach her taste. If she thinks it is OK to pick out bad trees, she will bring home bad men."
The husband thought about it for a second and said, "So you are saying that good taste in trees equals good taste in men?"
I nodded as I examined the tree for the hundredth time trying to determine where the next glass ball would go.
"OK, fine. But don't ever talk about her bringing men home again," he said.
So we both win. I get to keep my pretty trees and he gets to live in his dream world where our daughter will never want to date.