My husband and I’ve been hitching up and carting home live trees ahead of Christmas ever since we were first hitched ourselves.

From our first Noel together onward, we’ve set aside an evening each Thanksgiving weekend to clear a substantial space in our living room and go get our balsam.

We always made a date of it. Once we loaded our find into our surprisingly compact vehicle with the tree trunk’s end poking out flagged in red, we’d cap the evening with a walk down quaint Main Street to our favorite chocolatier and its neighboring wine shop to take home fancy treats and sparkling champagne. 

Noshing on these goodies brought such comfort and joy as we decked our halls and tra-la-la’ed.
I’ve always adored a real tree tucked into our living room this time of year. I relish in its unique characteristics and slight asymmetry pronounced via glittering lights; its scent powerful, always wafting seasonal memories of ancient times back to mind.

Ahh, yes.

This year? Ahh, no.

As we’ve added more children and ornaments into the fold, we’ve simultaneously added more hair-tearing time, stress and Clark Griswold-esque shenanigans in along with it.

I’m not really certain how getting a simple tree became a paramount ordeal as Yuletide seasons have come and gone.

Two years ago I wrote a column about this very circumstance, and felt it was a one-time fluke. But getting our tree’s become more of a monumental challenge each passing year, rendering me fit to be tied.

Like a tree.

Sunday I found myself semi-stranded in a bare part of a big box store parking lot with a screaming infant.

The store’s sale sign promoting live Christmas trees flipped in the rhythm of the biting breeze.
The winds were frigid, whipping about our van as I tried to comfort and feed my baby from his seat. 
I’d sent in my husband and older two to shop hardware odds and ends as I waited for my littlest to settle so we could all shop first.

But settle he didn’t.

Mid-feed, mid-scream, my cell phone rang.

My husband and the kiddos had picked up what they needed and were proceeding to trees.

Shouting over the baby’s screams, I yelled into the phone, “Just go… I won’t be able to make it.”

I was literally in an Escape Room for parents – I couldn’t plop the babe in a stroller and walk about because it was too cold and windy, even for Maine.

I couldn’t take the babe for a drive because there was no way I’d dare navigate with that mammoth trailer hooked to the van.

But just as I’d had my white flag surrender moment of leaving the tree-picking experience to the rest of my family, just as I stood wind-whipped and hunched into the van with Dr. Brown bottle in hand to soothe the baby, he actually settled a bit.

It was a pre-Christmas miracle.

I made a run for it.

With the wind at my back, I blew through the parking lot full stroller-speed ahead and charged toward the trees.

My eldest gleefully stood pointing with a gloved hand to his pick of the needly litter.

But I was tired, the wind was awful, and my husband and I knew what lay ahead with loading it up, trimming the trunk and cutting it to accommodate our angel topper once home, if we could even get it to stand straight.

He quietly leaned in and said, “It’s sacreligious, I know, but – we could always buy an artificial tree.”

In that moment, it was the perfect solution.

We trekked inside with all the tots in their pom-pommed hats to a forest of fake display arbors.
I stared at the display of wannabe conifers; some truly lifelike, some much less so.

Each tree’s cost varied by hundred dollar differences, and I couldn’t make a quick decision while my children were simultaneously scampering in and out of the trees singing ‘Winter Wonderland’ at the tops of their lungs.

I quickly calculated that in buying live trees each year, my husband and I had spent more than $600 in evergreens.

Talk about a lot of green.

Artificial seemed the cost-effective, non-time-consuming way to go.

But in that moment, the moment in which my delighted tots sang out and my baby was probably moments from harking angel-style, I couldn’t muster up such a hefty decision.

My kids made their way to a different display – a giant, inflatable holiday dragon for the front yard.
‘Hey!’ they yelled, “Let’s hang ornaments on his big claws! He’ll be our tree instead!”

Santa claws?

We had to get outta there quickly.

My husband and I returned to that original tree our son had picked out to begin with 1.5 hours before.

Lots of trees and time-shifting. Perhaps we were in Narnia.

As we selected our live tree for the last time, I told my husband that we needed to commemorate this event with a photo.

“After so many years, this is our last real tree. It’s the end of an era,” I dramatically declared.
The cashier and a nearby customer stopped and stared.

My husband announced, “We’re not splitting up, everyone.”

•••

As we lumbered back through the parking lot, our oldest said, “Well, wasn’t that just the Nightmare before Christmas?”

Pretty astute for 6.

As expected, we returned home to more work. We had to shave down portions of the tree to fit and make it water-ready.

We took several measurements, and angled the tree several times so that it’s slightly crooked trunk stood straight.

Our little ones were thankfully patient and eagerly awaited decorating and helping string lights.

The beauty with their ages this year is that the 6-year old is old enough to help, the 3-year old is old enough to be trusted to step within ten yards of the ornaments box, and the baby isn’t old enough to get into trouble – yet. 

So there you have it.

Before we knew it, my husband and I were sipping egg nog and preparing dinner as the children decorated our tree.

The sheer delight in their faces glowed in the lights’ reflection.

‘Meet Me In St. Louis’ played in the background.

My heart was truly filled with considerable joy as I watched this unfold, their little nimble fingers delicately looping story-laden ornaments over each branch.

I realized then that it’s okay to modify traditions. 

If we purchase an artificial tree next year, it won’t make decorating any less fun.

Most importantly, we’ll get so much time back to ourselves, too.

Certainly an imitation doesn’t come with that balsam scent, but there’s a Yankee candle for that. 

As I watched my happy kiddos ooh and aah at the decorations they pulled from worn boxes, my husband and I gave each other a knowing look. 

Life is an incredibly far cry now from those fancy chocolates and champagne of days gone by.
But it is so much more interesting, exciting, and my cup overflows with happiness. 

And egg nog.

Next year’s tree will probably be artificial. But as for our kiddos’ happiness, that’s something they can never fake.

— Michelle Cote is creative director of the Journal Tribune and a nationally-syndicated columnist. Rocking out to the classics in her minivan with husband and three sons is totally her jam. Contact her at [email protected].