The Fir Flew When She Got a Fake Tree
No one in my family is speaking to me.
Except the 7-year-old--which is good, because I’d sure miss our frequent, highly intellectual conversations regarding the assorted liquids he has spilled onto numerous non-Scotchgarded surfaces for various reasons that were absolutely not his fault.
But:
1) What did I do to deserve the silent treatment from the other members of my family?
2) Why do they think this is a punishment?
What I did--and I’m not saying I’m proud of this--was I bought a fake Christmas tree.
The 7-year-old is very supportive of my action because he vigorously defends the tenets of a free-market economy and the inalienable right of consumers to purchase goods that come in very large boxes that he can whack repeatedly with his baseball bat.
But my husband and older son are fairly sure that I’ve committed a felony, that I’ve ruined Christmas and should be shot. After I’m done wrapping their presents.
First, they claim to miss the smell of a real tree. They make a very good point, considering that neither one of them possesses an actual sense of smell. Last year, for example, our kitchen nearly burnt down because they were completely unaware that the bag of microwave popcorn they were cooking had decided to pursue a career as a fairly sizable fireball.
They also contend that I robbed them of the joy associated with their annual trip to the local Christmas tree lot. From what I recall, this wondrous experience used to go something like this:
Husband storms into house: “I’m never taking those kids to buy a tree again.”
Kids: “Mom, what does #%&##%*% mean?”
Every year it was the same disastrous ordeal. My husband would pick out a tree. The kids would pretend to barf. Then they would select a tree. My husband would glance at the price tag and proceed to suffer some type of unattractive medical incident. This negotiating process would continue for an extended period until an agreement finally was reached, often just in time to commemorate Independence Day.
Then the fun would really begin. A good time was had by all as my husband would attempt to make the tree stand up straight by sawing off portions of his flesh and introducing the youngsters to several additional cheery holiday phrases. The tree then could be brought into the house, which is, of course, the ideal spot to set oversized plant life that tends to drop pine needles, drip sap and spontaneously combust.
Final steps involved carefully placing the spruce in its stand, filling the stand with water and then standing back to allow the family cat ample room to attain the velocity necessary to bring tree and stand crashing to the ground.
My husband and son’s final argument is that my fake tree isn’t in keeping with the true spirit of Christmas, which this year, I understand, is officially being sponsored by Burger King and Nintendo. My children are particularly in touch with this spirit. To them, this most special of holidays means that they have no school for two weeks and that they will receive a huge mound of toys that they can break before breakfast. I can see how an artificial tree would blatantly cheapen this deeply spiritual experience.
Just the same, I love my fake tree. It’s perfectly shaped, doesn’t shed and won’t get all dried out and dead-looking to the point where it easily could be mistaken for Joan Collins. And it’s reusable, which is good for the environment and that precious, dwindling resource known as my bank account.
Besides, I contend that our artificial tree does reflect the true spirit of Christmas.
We are, after all, fighting.
