We went to playgroup last Wednesday, and the kids stood in awe of the family's beautifully-adorned Christmas tree. One of the moms there promised her that our family would get a tree soon too. I didn't think much of that simple promise until S started asking me every half-hour if "we get our kissed tree NOW, mama!?"
"No, not now. You need to take a nap now. Maybe in a couple days."
"No, not now, we need to go to church now."
"Nope, not now, you have to take a bath."
And so on, for six whole days, until FINALLY, one fateful afternoon, we donned our boots and warm hats and mittens, and drove to the local Christmas tree farm. There were horses waiting to greet us. We fed the horses bits of mud and soggy grass for awhile, until a LOUD tractor rumbled up behind us. Eyes popped out of sockets, and everyone slowly, stiffly, started backing towards the safety of the barn.
B advised the family, "We not ridin' that. We noooooot." I grabbed up Z, and settled him down in a pile of hay. I walked towards B, who ran in the other direction. I caught him, and realized that Z was screaming hysterically. K and I snuggled in the hay beside all three petrified kids. The tractor rattled violently, and lurched into motion. "It's movin', mom!" squealed Z, and suddenly the world was right again, and a giant smile replaced the look of pure horror.
The tractor stopped in the middle of a giant selection of perfect Christmas trees. The tree guy started "educating" us on the various "brands" of tree. Blue spruce is prickly and good for small kids, because they will only touch it once or twice. White spruce or something is softer. And so on.
"I like that one," I said. Keith agreed.
Tree Guy was not satisfied. He wanted to display his collection. He took us further into the woods. "I like that one," said K. So did I. Tree Guy was not satisfied. He took us further and further into the woods, past more and more trees that would have been glorious in our holiday living room. Finally, we sternly said, "Yup, this tree is perfect. We want this one. It is great!"
Tree Guy studied it (for a long time), and said, "Um, that is a big tree. Are you sure you want that one? Do you have a big room to put it in?"
"No."
"You should look for something smaller."
("Ok, Tree Guy. Let's venture on.")
We did find a tree, quite a bit smaller (good thing, because our angel has a headache from her halo digging into the ceiling). We did take Tree Guy's advice about the prickles...it isn't working.
During our quest for the perfect tree, Z spent his entire time asking, "Hey, Mom! Where's the nest? Mom, where is that nest? Mom, the nest? The NEST! MOM!"
I tried for awhile to find the nest, and gave up, because it was getting dark. I looked up in trees, on the ground, on bushes, for the said nest, and my searches were in vain. I never found the nest, and Z continued to ask.
After cutting our tree, we dragged it to our waiting wagon, and Z smiled brightly, squealing, "THERE is the nest, Mom! Put me back on the nest!" (Yup, I guess to a two-year-old, the heaping pile of wagon hay looks much like Big Bird's nest!) I'm glad you found, it, Z-er!
