Today was Christmas tree day in our household. We hopped into my minivan (Yes, minivan. My ego is not tied up with my vehicle. Plus there is TONS of room for crap to accumulate and I need that because decluttering my car is a pain as I keep my car in a constant state of pigsty) to Silveyville Tree Farm...it's been a tradition of ours for years. It's a cut your own tree farm; let me tell you that it is highly entertaining to see people wandering around with scythes slung over their shoulders; there was one family whose teenage son was using theirs like a cane. The hood on his red sweatshirt was covering most of his face; my husband pointed out to me, "He's like the Grim Reaper, but cheery because he's wearing red. He's the Cheer Reaper." I tried to one-up him, but all I came up with was Great Reaper, which wasn't any better at all.
I always have visions of these family excursions as being all postcardy and fuzzy around the edges...we all hold hands and smile at each other and enjoy the crisp air scented with a variety of pine trees. I know that's ridiculous, but I want it; I want my kids to have those memories.
Of course, this is reality not a perfume commercial, so while we did hold hands and smile at each other and the air was wonderfully crisp and scented with a variety of pine trees, other things were happening as well. I twisted my ankle muddling through the Scotch Pines, our daughter whined because she wanted to just PICK A TREE ALREADY so she could climb on the hay bales. Our son reminded us of things we already knew, and I'm sure my husband was cold because he let me wear his coat even though he only had on a long sleeved tee while I had on a sweatshirt over my tee.
But, still, we picked the best tree ever aka Perfect Tree Except For That One Bare Spot (and found another perfect baby tree that will be ready for us in a few years, more about that later), and my manly man husband CHOPPED IT DOWN! He could totally take care of us in the woods.
While we waited for the nice people at the tree farm shake it to get rid it of loose needles, we hopped on an ATV train, climbed hay bales, rode on an antique sleigh, checked out the life size nativity scene, played on the hay bale reindeer, took pictures, huddled near the crackling fire, and met Santa. They say he wasn't the real Santa, but the brother of a couple of people who work there. They say he is actually a trucker and that they had to bleach his hair to whiten it. They say that it took them a few years to convince him to 'play' Santa there. I say he was such a dead ringer for the real deal that I think they doth protest too much.
At the end of the day, I'm sure my minivan looked pretty ding dang cool with our tree strapped to the luggage rack, and if I'm not mistaken a few fellow highway travelers looked longingly at our Perfect Tree Except For That One Bare Spot. Our daughter was giddy with the tree trimming festivities, and we did the whole holding her up to put the star on the top of the tree thang. Yes, her eyes sparkled with the wonder and joy.
Later, at dinner, we chatted about how much we enjoyed the activities at the farm. I asked my daughter what her favorite part of being there was. She looked off into the distance for a moment, and then answered, "Picking our tree."
Maybe their memories will be postcardy and fuzzy around the edges after all.
Can I tell you how excited I am about this? I wasn't nominated last year...I did a bit of nominating of others, but wasn't honored myself. I honestly have no idea what this means in the big scheme of things, but I am flattered and humbled nonetheless. And I'm also laughing that the only one with any votes is hottest mommy blogger. HA!