(Hens, if any of you are reading, that one's for you)
We went to pick out our Christmas tree last night. It's always interesting to me how each family unit has a different tree-hunting personality. When I was a kid, my dad and sister were the "we need to look closely at every branch on every tree to find the perfect one!" members of the family, while my mom and I were more in the "it's bleeping cold out here, these all look awesome to me, let's just pick one please" camp. (***IMPORTANT NOTE: my mom just thought it was cold, not bleeping cold; I'm sure that I'm the only one who thought it was bleeping cold, at least from high school on). In college, my roomates and I went to a tree farm one year to look for a Christmas tree for our townhouse. We quickly learned that all five of us had very different visions of what the perfect tree should look like, and college girl drama ensued right there in the middle of the farm. It was then that Bruno, the kindly tree farm proprietor with the thick Eastern European accent, intervened with "Girls, girls, girls! It's not the tree. It's the ideaaaaaaa." And at that moment, we were filled with the True Meaning of Christmas, even if someone in our group DID want a tree that was way too short and squat (I won't name names).
In our family, David has the same "examine every tree" gene that my dad and sister have; I still think it's bleeping cold and we just need to hurry up and pick a tree (even though I'm now looking at trees 1000 miles South of where I did as a kid); and my kids just want to run through the maze of trees and make a lot of noise. Even though they did not seem to care about weighing in on the tree that we ended up choosing, they were happy to guard it while David went to find someone to help us load the tree. So mission accomplished: we have a tree, it's in the stand in the living room, and the lights are on. Today, we decorate.