
Matt and I have celebrated 13 Christmases together since we got married, and we have never once had a real Christmas tree. I have always been somewhat ashamed by this fact, like it is some dark secret akin to having a dozen cats living in my basement (which, for the record, would never happen since I am violently allergic to cats).
Matt grew up with fake trees, so it was never a big deal for him. But me? Well, just to give you an idea, the first line of my high school's alma mater was: "In the land of tall green fir trees." Oregon is the top producer of real Christmas trees. Growing up, cutting down your own tree was just what you did. I didn't really even realize fake trees were an option. Sort of like when we moved to Manhattan back in 1999 I didn't realize that living in a place with no actual bedroom was an option ("Excuse me, studio apartment? No comprendo.")
Last Christmas, our lovely fake pre-lit Costco Christmas tree was starting to show its age. The base was broken and cobbled together with packing tape. Some of the lights stopped working. And I declared then and there that this would be the last year for a fake tree. In 2011, we were going to go out and chop down our very own live Christmas tree.
And so it was.
On the Saturday after Thanksgiving we drove up to the tree farm and picked out the Woodbury family's very first real Christmas tree. It was a gloriously sunny, 65 degree day (no coats required). I'm still trying to figure out where I sign up to get that kind of weather in late November every year.
We brought our measuring tape to make sure we got a tree that was just right.

Lucy mostly just walked around and looked cute. She's really good at that.

At this point, let me just say that picking out a Christmas tree is stressful for somebody like me who has decision-making issues. Now, if I do say so myself I am pretty good at the big, life-changing decisions. I analyze the facts, make a choice, and very rarely regret it. But give me a small, inconsequential (in the grand scheme of things) choice to make and I absolutely fall apart. Picking a paint color? Paralyzing. Deciding whether to send Claire to Pre-K A or Pre-K B next year (the difference of just a few hours a week)? Matt is still wishing he could get back the hours I spent debating those two options.
Deciding on a Christmas tree operated in a similar fashion. Is this one too fat? Too skinny? Too bare? Too full? Leaning 7 degrees to the right? Funny on top? There were just too many trees to choose from (funny how that happens at a tree farm).
But eventually we found just the right one.

We strapped it on top of the Volvo, brought it home, and we are now treating it like a fourth child to make sure it stays alive until Christmas.
