The sky was robin’s egg blue, the sun was shining brightly and the snow beneath our feet was powdery soft. It was a picture postcard New England day and the countdown to Christmas was on! The holiday was only two weeks away and we’d yet to get a tree.
Back in our early days, the two of us were all about creating traditions. We’d head to the tree farm where my parents had gotten their tree for years to tag our tree. For those of you unfamiliar with this term, “tagging” is the early bird’s way of getting dibs on the best Christmas trees. Here’s how it works: You head to the tree farm weeks before Christmas; before weather or crowds pose a distraction and you choose your tree. You write your name on the tag in Sharpie and tie it to a branch. Just to be sure no one mistakes your tree as fair game, it’s a good idea to affix something personal to the tree, a ribbon or your dog’s neck scarf, for instance. You return a few weeks later, seek out your bandana and fetch that tree. If you’re thinking “this sounds a little much,” you’re right, but back then, we didn’t think so. We were establishing shared rituals.
As the years passed and we became a family of four, our annual family tree trek evolved and we ditched tree tagging altogether. Finding the tree became less of an adventure as the girls grew and their lives became busier. Last year when our youngest daughter, a lover of all things Christmas, went off to college and we officially became empty nesters, the tree getting officially became one more task to check off our ever-growing holiday to do list.
The third weekend of December, my husband and I headed to the mom and pop tree farm high on the hill and chose a “good enough” pre-cut tree. Just like always, he put the lights on and I began decorating. When I came to the box of “special” ornaments, the ornaments each of the girls had personally picked out since toddler-hood, I decided I had done enough tree decorating. How fun it would be for them to finish the tree together. I pictured them reminiscing as they placed the different ornaments that served as punctuation marks to each phase of their childhoods.
The girls both returned home a week before Christmas. “Nice tree, Mama,” my older daughter said. “Yeah, it looks good,” my younger daughter said. “I left you two a box,” I said. “Nah, I’m good,” my younger daughter said. “You can finish it.” I was crestfallen and super perplexed. How could this lover of all things Christmas take a pass on finishing the tree? “Seriously?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said. “It looks good. I don’t want to mess it up.”
Mess it up? What was she talking about? She could tell from my scrunched up face I was lost. “You’ve already done it the way you want,” she said. “You should finish it.”
“What are you talking about?” I finally said. “I saved the best for you two. On purpose.”
“No thanks,” my younger daughter said pleasantly. “You’ll just move the ornaments when I’m done anyway.” My mouth fell open. “It’s true, Mama” her older sister agreed.
And it was true. In my effort to create long-lasting traditions, I’d asserted control. And in that control, I’d communicated unattainable perfectionism in the form of non-verbal criticism. I’d moved precious ornaments I planned on passing on to the girls when they had homes of their own to higher, less vulnerable spots on the tree. What I’d done out of concern of some future gesture of good will was a present judgment of “wrong.”
In the year that’s passed, I’ve been reflecting. A lot. About the things that matter. And what I’ve realized is the teeniest gestures are often the ones that convey the loudest messages. If an ornament breaks, so what? The memory remains. Besides, who knows if my children will even want these things? Only time will tell.
So this year, the tree my husband and I picked out in record time stands beside the staircase undecorated. It will remain this way until the girls return. And when we decorate it, I’ll do my best to remain grateful, mindful. Who knows, maybe this’ll be the year that we establish a new tradition-one where ornaments are placed and left.
©Kathie Z.
