Your mother and I have been together for five years, and in that time, we have already started some much loved traditions.
Today we went to buy our Christmas tree, a ritual that has been the same ever since we bought the wild tree of 2004.
Being Jewish, Mom had never bought a Christmas tree before and chose one shaped like Danny DiVito.
The tradition goes something like this:
We hop in the car and head off to a tree farm in Glastonbury. Upon arriving, we don hats and mittens before walking to the greenhouse, where a Hispanic gentleman of questionable English hands me a saw. I am always shocked that this man chooses to sit in an unheated greenhouse all day without benefit of a book or music.
I just don’t understand some people.
Armed with our saw, we head off into a field of pine trees to choose the one just right for us. This process usually takes quite a while, as your indecisive mother drags us back and forth across the field comparing trees of the minutest differences. Being excessively pregnant this year, we made our choice uncommonly fast, and I was soon on the ground, cutting away.
Eventually the tree falls and I drag it to the car, where the gentleman of questionable English ties it down while I debate the appropriateness of tipping him for providing the twine and the extra pair of hands.
I usually do.
Your mother and I then head off to a farm stand down the road, where we purchase a wreath and assorted holiday accouterment from an excessively friendly gentleman of excellent English. This year they even gave Mom a free wreath hanger.
Pregnant women get all the perks.
With our car now packed with Christmas paraphernalia and smelling of evergreen, we head to Daybreak, a coffee shop in the center of Glastonbury where we drink hot chocolate and check out all the kitschy items displayed on the shelves. Since this is my only hot chocolate of the year (and my only hot drink of the year), I invariably burn my mouth or smear my nose with whip cream, much to your mother’s delight.
This year a woman with a newborn chatted with us for a while, describing how she and her partner had a natural, drug free birth at home with the assistance of a midwife. She passed on some advice regarding homeopathy and moved on, thus establishing herself as full-on Earthy Crunchy.
Arriving home, I battle the tree, the tree stand, and the lights for about an hour while Mom begins decorating the rest of the house. This year she wrapped the banister in ribbon and styled the built-in shelves in the living room. Once the tree is in place and the lights are on, your mother turns on some Christmas music and we spend the next half hour decorating the tree, reminiscing about the memories attached to many of our ornaments.
Next year you’ll be about a year old when this process repeats itself, and though you won’t ever remember it, I’ll write about and take lots of photos, or at least Photoshop you into old ones if we forget.
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