Family traditions. They are one of the things that make the holidays sentimental and give a sense of joy and calm amid what can become a very fast paced, chaotic time.
My family is no different. We, too are observing some of our many holiday traditions as we enjoy this wonderful time of the year. Among my favorite, is getting our tree. One tradition my family has adopted (and one i think my husband would rather I forget about) is going to a tree farm and cutting down our own tree. This year was no different. So this weekend was our weekend to go and we all got bundled up and headed out. Well, almost all of us. As my kids and I sported snowpants, boots, mittens, hats and mutliple layers, my husband goes out in sneakers, jeans and a heavy hooded sweatshirt. I can tell already this is setting up to be a fabulous outing. He insists he will be "fine" and we are on our way.
So off we go to Hampton Hills tree farm. I inquire if my husband took the time to look at the directions I set out for him. Apparently he felt confident in his ability to get us there with out doing so. So we journey south and as I sit in the passenger seat playing on my Blackberry my husband gets increasingly irritated with me. He knows the road to get there is somewhere, and it would be nice if I paid attention to try to help him find it. He wasn't too thrilled when I suggested he just pay attention to where all the vehicles with the trees tied atop of them were coming from.
Eventually, we did reach our destination and so starts our search for the perfect tree. Now, if there is one thing you should know about me it is that I am a bit peculiar about my trees. I can't have just any one. I have a certain "type" and just any tree doesn't fulfill the requirements to be my perfect tree. Naturally finding the perfect tree can take some time. So my husband, after getting sick of driving up and down rows of trees with me shouting at him to slow down so I could look, finally decided to drop my son and I off. He and my daughter would wait in the car. So my son and I set out to find a tree. "This one mom!" "How about that one?" Oh, he has so much to learn, I thought. And then I found one. Maybe. So I motion my husband out of the car. Are you sure, he asks. I nod, and then proceed to walk towards a couple other trees I had not yet checked out. I liked that tree, but didn't quite get that "feeling" from it. Wouldn't you know on my venture further back in to the rows I found a tree that did give me a bit of a warm fuzzy. It was a cute little tree, I thought. And so I yelled for my husband to come to where I was. There he comes trudging through the several inches of snow in his sneakers with my daughter who was crying because she was cold and I ask his opinion. He doesn't care. I instruct him to wait there while I go back to the first tree. As I do so he yells for my son to bring him the saw. Apparently he was going to make the decision for me. Certainly this could not be. So I went back to the first tree, realized it didn't give me that loving feeling and confirmed that indeed the tree he stood by was "it". We found our tree.I found our tree.That was only half the battle.
Now for sawing the tree down. My husband laid down in the snow and began sawing the tree down.When he finished he stood up, cold, wet and covered with snow. As thoughts of "I told you so" in terms of his chosen attire danced in my head, I decided it would not help the situation to express such feelings so I simply keep my mouth shut and he hoisted the tree up on the top of the car, throws a piece of twine over it and says to hold it tight as we were driving up to the tree shaking station. So here we are, driving up the rest of the row each holding a end of the twine that ran through our windows and I am watching the rear view mirror just waiting to see the tree tumble down. Fortunately, we got to our destination with no such happening.
Before heading home we decided to let the kids do the sleigh ride with Santa. As we approach it, though, I feel the tug of my son and then those dreaded words, "Mom! He's not really Santa!" My heart sank. I think my son finally figured "it" out. So I scramble and ask what makes him think that. "Mom! Santa is up in the sky!" Of course! So I then must explain the whole thing that Santa has helpers and this man is one of Santa's helpers because Santa is busy making toys. Thankfully, he bought it. We still played the man up as if he was the real deal, but my son I could tell wasn't going for it. He had met the "real" Santa already, afterall, and in his head this guy was clearly not it.
As we began our venture towards home and the making of another Peterson family tradition neared an end I had to smile to myself. As my husband drove down the road going about fourty miles an hour and we bickered because if I was driving I would be going faster, as others who also had trees atop their cars were, and then amid the bickering he missed the turn for Hastings warm thoughts came to mind. I smiled inside knowing that another memory was made for my kids. One they will carry with them for years and hopefully start traditions similar with their own families. It won't matter if they decide on long or short needled trees, whether they cut down their own or go to a lot. What will matter is that they take the time to make memories and traditions with their own families. And I am so happy that I have been able to give them that.
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