I Hope Her Brain's Not Rotting

A few days ago, Joey and I journeyed into the forests of Wisconsin to chop down our first Christmas tree as a family. This particular forest happen to have a fire pit, free hot cocoa and a wagon that dropped you off in front of the Frasier Firs.

In my family, Christmas always meant cutting down our own tree. We made a rather big production of it as we all bundled up, searched for twine and grabbed the special "tree cutting saw." A tree could not be cut down unless we all agreed that it was The One. My father, who appreciates the unusual, always rooted for the quirky, sub par Charlie Brown Christmas trees. My sister and I, with our bangs hairsprayed taller than most of the trees, typically just nodded at whatever he chose so we could go home and complain to our friends about our weird holiday traditions.

Although I may have hid it at times, I've always loved cutting down our Christmas tree and it was a tradition I couldn't wait to introduce Adeline to. I envisioned her all wide-eyed and cooing with enjoyment as we hunted for The Perfect Tree. I bundled her up in her way-too-big snow suit and prayed that she wouldn't poop all over it.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I turned to my little babe and excitedly asked, "Ready to pick out a tree, Addy?"

She was a little less excited about it than I was.
I think she decided her snow suit was too constricting to do anything else but nap in.

Yes, Joey made me crop his face out of the picture.

Wanting Addy to be as involved in the process as possible, we used her like a divining rod and let her pull us toward the tree we were meant to have.

Here's what she selected, and by that I mean here's the tree Joey and I picked.

Yes, Joey made me crop him out of the picture.

We got the tree up and then it was time for a most dreaded task - putting the lights on. In my other life, when I worked at a landscaping company, I used to decorate people's trees in the winter. I hate doing it. Maybe it's the sap, the prickly needles or because I have flashbacks to seeing Mrs. Miller in her mansion with her personal chef while I shivered outside tangled in a ball of lights. Regardless, I hang the lights on our tree, my parent's tree and my grandmother's tree because I'm "a professional." And I know they hate doing it more than I do.

Anyways, since lighting the tree, I have found the joy and curiosity I was looking for in my daughter's face at the tree farm.

She's been spending most of her time doing this.

I'm just thankful it's not the TV.