Um, yeah, that's my five year old with a saw.
We went to the tree farm this weekend to pick out a tree for Christmas. Well, David and Edie went in search of the tree....
Lucy decided to spend all her time in the un-supervised, un-manned, completely free jumpy castle, where no one was making the children take turns. And she missed hunting for the tree.
And drinking hot chocolate.
And finally, after we pried her out of the jumpy castle with all kinds of seductions and threats, David and Edie showed her "the tree". The tree they picked out. While Lucy was otherwise busy.
And Lucy loved the tree. Until she realized it was Edie's favorite tree. And that Edie had chosen it. And then, all of a sudden she hated it. Hated the very sight of it.
There was an uncomfortable moment where it looked like we might not leave this farm with a tree at all.
Lucy hated Edie and David's tree.
An intense negotiation ensued.
Then, there was much wandering and hand-ringing and consternation as we made loops around the farm, inspecting each tree and trying to find one - freakin' one tree - that was not hideous and weirdly-formed, and fit the criteria for both children, who just wanted to hate each other's choices on principle. It was cold on the farm. That's all I'm sayin', cold.
Is that the one? Maybe? Yes? Yes?....No. Crap.
And then, by some miracle, some act of God, both children decided they liked a single tree. Aaaaahhhh! (That's the angels singing.) No matter the tree looked like it was a big green pear, with a huge bushy bottom and a scrawny, scraggily top. I like big green Christmas pears. I like scraggily.
Bring it! Before someone decides they hate it. Before my fingers turn black with frostbite like those poor slobs who climb Everest.
David started sawing. Feverishly.
And then, we realized this tree cutting was not child's play and David got serious.
Clothes were discarded.
The children gave David lots of important advice on how to use the saw, how to not injure the tree, how to make sure he got every single branch. Important stuff.
And the people were happy.
And the Fosters became proud owners of a Christmas tree.
And then, weirdly, the tree had legs.
And walked away.
And it got closer and closer to leaving the farm with us. And Christmas felt like it was getting closer and closer, too. Someone sang Jingle Bells. Snowflakes filled the air...okay, I'm lying. But it was all good. No one was fighting. Or had to take off seven layers of clothes to pee.
Then, at home, we decorated. Which was really just an excuse to climb up and down the ladder and give Mommy a freakin' heart attack.
The kids like to climb the ladder and pretend they are losing their grip and falling off, so they can watch me go all pale and ill and jittery. They did that about 20 times. Merry Freakin' Christmas to me.
And we added the names of our friends and family to tea-stained cards and hung them up on our new, pear-shaped, scraggily tree, which was looking less-scraggily and less-pear-shaped as the minutes wore on. (I was drinking Whiskey Sours so that might have had something to do with it.)
And we wrote the names of new friends, and added them to the limbs, so we could think of them, too. So they could be with us through Christmas. And we ate guacamole and chips, which I think is like a tree-trimming tradition somewhere in the world. Like maybe Mexico.
And then, we just took it all in and felt pretty damned good about ourselves.
But it's not over. We have only just started. This week is cookie week. Christmas is just getting revved up, baby. Bring it.