Fake Christmas Tree

When I was a child, decorating the tree was my favorite part of Christmas. I loved the ornaments, handmade by my talented mother, little birds made of saved cardboard, painted ceramics, felt wreathes and paper chains. Unfortunately, I was the only one in the family who loved the tree ritual. My brothers reluctantly but dutifully hung a couple ornaments. My mother, between cooking dinner and a hundred other things, tried to show some enthusiasm, but it was the distracted variety I understand only too well now.

Each year I was disappointed. I’d imagined all of us around the tree hanging ornaments and singing carols like a scene out of “Little Women." Part of my problem in life is that I’m a romantic, imagining perfect scenes like something out of a book or movie. Well, that explains a lot. But I digress…

When I married Dave I was excited to get our first tree together. I bought ornaments for both Dave and my stepson and wrote the year on the back to commemorate our first year together. Dave’s were all fishing related: Santa fly-fishing, a decorated trout, a Christmas boat. Eric’s were all trains. He was six that year and could think of nothing but. They barely noticed them. We went out to get a tree. Eric was cold. Dave was grumpy. We couldn’t agree on a tree. Finally we arrived home and there was some cursing, some grousing and a tree crooked in the stand. Eric helped me decorate between running around the house with the stockings on his feet. Dave was mysteriously absent.

After Christmas there were needles and a spot of sap on the rug and streaks up the stairwell from dragging it into the house.

My little girls arrived, three years apart. I wanted every Christmas to be special, each moment of the holiday something the girls would remember fondly, something they could hold onto for the rest of their lives. And, I told myself, the season begins with the tree. So every year we made the trip to the Christmas tree farm. We had hot chocolate. We ate candy canes. But Dave continued the tradition of acting like a bear during the entire ritual, especially during his favorite task, putting the tree in its stand. Granted, the little girls loved every part of it. They loved the tree, loved to decorate; they wanted to know the story of every ornament, where I got it and for whom. They reminisced about last year’s tree and sang along with the holiday music. And me? You’d think I’d feel happy. I’d finally found my fellow tree enthusiasts.

But honestly, the last couple of years I dreaded it. I’m tired, I guess. I’m worn out from trying to make it all perfect, from all the years of trying so damn hard. At everything.

Last year was our first year in our new home. By the end of the season there were two sets of stains from the tree (both the bringing in and the taking out) on my beige walls from when we dragged it up the stairs. It was the usual fuss and curses and sap on my hands from holding the tree so Dave could secure it in the stand. We fought about the lights, how many and who should hang them. The girls were jumping up and down with excitement, tearing into boxes. My eye was twitching. I just wanted it to be done.

After Christmas, we forgot to put the tree out on the day the Boy Scouts picked up old trees in our neighborhood. So it remained in our garage, a carcass of a tree with only the top limbs intact like a giant rust-colored paintbrush.

My bestie asked if Dave was saving it for a whittling project for his Boy Scout troop.

That carcass tree, staring at me every time I drove into the garage, during the months from January to November, well, it finally sent me over the proverbial edge, or perhaps dragged me, finally, to my senses.

Last week I went to Costco. I bought a big, fat, clean, sparkly, fake tree. I put it up myself in 7 minutes, 30 seconds, and that includes taking it out of the box. There were no lights to string or stands to tighten. The girls didn’t care. They thought the 1000 lights were perfect. They happily decorated it. We had hot chocolate and cookies and holiday music in the background. Okay, I had wine, but you knew that. All before Dave arrived home from work.

There is no freshly cut tree smell. I miss it. But hey, sometimes things must be sacrificed. And I think my family would agree they’d rather have me here with them than sent off with the men in white coats.

In all seriousness, sometimes we have to make things easier on ourselves. We have to figure out ways to make it fun again, instead of one more obligation, one more way to fail at being perfect.

So Merry Christmas to myself.

Signed,

The happy owner of a fake Christmas tree

Tess Hardwick is a novelist and mother. She writes a blog called Inspiration for Ordinary Life. She lives in Seattle with her husband and two small daughters.