A rookie mistake

I love Christmas - the music, the lights, the family memories, the food, and lets not kid ourselves here I also love the presents. Stockings especially are a big deal in my family and have always been my favourite part of Christmas morning. In Hugh's family the stockings are mostly about food. Along with assorted chocolates they would get pickled herring, oysters, sardines and other equally gag-inducing items. In my family we get stuff - fun stuff of the smallish variety. Saying it out loud they might not sound all that interesting - pretty change purses, accesories, kitchen gadgets, fun socks, a book or magazine - but stockings have always been a highlight for my sisters and I.

Our first Christmas together Hugh and I weren't going to be with either of our families so we spent quite a bit of time sharing family traditions and planning our first Christmas. I said to Hugh "stockings are really important to me." And Hugh heard me. Really heard me. As I was mildly saying "stockings are very important to me." He was hearing "don't screw this up or you will wreck this Christmas and possibly every Christmas to come."

Then again, I may have actually said that. Out loud. Possibly. While gripping his hands and looking him in the eye. Maybe. Hugh was understandably stressed out. In hindsight I think the pressure was a good thing. It upped the level of play if you get me and my stocking was amazing.

Fast forward 8 years to this Christmas. After 8 years Hugh is no longer a rookie at this. And by this I mean understanding me, getting me, hearing me. So you think that Hugh, no longer a rookie,getting me,hearing me etc. would have known the right thing to do when I came downstairs the first Saturday morning in December and said "this is the ugliest tree I have ever seen. I think we should take it back and get another."

What he was supposed to say was, "you are absolutely right. Let's get this ugly thing back on the van immediately and exchange it." Unfortunately, I may have complained about the tree prior to Hugh's morning coffee so I don't think the synapses in Hugh's brain were firing on all cylinders yet because instead he uttered 2 fateful little sentences, "nah, I think it's fine. We can make it work." I mean honestly, does he even know me at all?

I realize that buying a tree from the Superstore is sort of hit and miss. The trees are all wrapped in twine so you don't actually know what your tree looks like until you get it home and unwrap the twine and pull the branches down into place. For 8 years Hugh has said he wants an artificial tree and for 8 years I have said I loved the smell of a real tree. So for 8 years we have compromised (and by we I mean Hugh) and bought our real trees from the Superstore.

One year our tree was so full that trying to get the lights on between the branches resulted in some serious pine needle injuires. Sticking our raw, bleeding hands into that tree (and by our, I mean Hugh's) was becoming a supreme act of bravery until we recalled our proud Canadian heritage and pulled out the hockey mitts that somehow or other every Canadian family manages to own. But most years our trees have been sort of scrawny or had a decided gap in the branch placement. Those are easy fixes - turn the tree just so, fill with decorations and voila, a full gorgeous tree.

Imperfect trees are a trademark of having a real tree and I am fine with that. In fact I think that is part of the charm. What I'm not fine with is a tree that does not resemble a tree. A tree that does not have the classic triangle shape, narrow at the top and gradually filling out as it reaches the bottom. A tree that goes straight down and tapers in. A tree that resembles skinny jeans. Which, by the way, are not a good look for me or a Christmas tree. I took one look at our tree that Saturday morning and all my happy dreams for a Norman Rockwell family day dissolved.

To back up slightly, we had taken our kids out for dinner on Friday night, bought a Christmas tree from the Superstore and taken a drive to look at Christmas lights. Friday night was magical. The kids were incredible at the restaurant, delighted by the idea of having a tree inside the house that they could put a star on, and in awe of all the twinkling lights. It was a heart-full evening where everything goes as planned and turns out better than you expect and becomes something that you will remember for years after. That was Friday night.

I fell asleep Friday night dreaming about the wonderful day to come - Listening to Christmas carols, eating shortbread, the kids helping to decorate the tree while we laughed easily and basked in our familial bliss while, strangely, all wearing matching red sweaters with snowflakes. On Friday night I managed to forget the Hugh is not always a morning perons, I am not always reasonable (a shocking admition I know) and that the kids who would be helping us decorate are both 3.

I definitely remembered all that on Saturday morning. Saturday morning that I was certain was going to be equal to or better than the night before was not getting off to a great start. As I wasn't about to haul the tree out of the house myself and as Hugh had very definitely decided he wasn't going to, and as the kids have a very small window of cooperativeness, I had no choice to but suck it up and decorate the dang thing. And I honestly tried. Really I did. But when we were twist-tying branches together to try to make the tree full enough to hang our lights on I said again, "don't you think we should just take the tree back before this goes any further?" But no.

We managed to get the lights on, the garland and the beads. And although I kept trying to overcome my attitude towards this reject of a tree I may not have entirely succeeded. At one point Hugh said, "I think you need a drink." Irritated, I replied "I'm not thirsty." Then I heard Hugh mutter, "I don't mean water."

So I removed myself from the situation and gave myself a little peptalk. "This is not a big deal. Who cares if it's an ugly tree. It's just a tree. It'll be a memory to laugh over. It's not a big deal." Then having gained some perspective I walked back downstairs, good attitude in hand, ready to decorate the heck out of the tree. I took one look at the tree and wanted to fall to the ground. It was that ugly.

So at 6:00pm, tired and cranky and coming off our shortbread/buttertart/gingerbread cookie high we took the decorations off, the beads, the garland, the lights and hauled that thing back to the Superstore. We weren't going to make the same mistake twice so we unwrapped the twine on a few trees, didn't see what we liked and took home the display tree.

And I didn't even say "I told you so." I may have said, "don't you wish we had just done this in the morning like I wanted?" But I didn't say "I told you so." Not even once. I would say that's growth, wouldn't you?