Usually, National Swear Day coincides with the day after Thanksgiving. Due to calendar adjustments, it came late this year.
Last night, you would have heard this conversation in our house.
Me: Hey, Babe, it’s National Swear Day tomorrow.
Dwayne: So we’re going to get a tree?
Perhaps because most things in our household that cause frustration can be traced back to Wesley, the boy fell asleep right before we got to the tree farm and stayed asleep until Dwayne tapped on the window and pointed to the tree-equivalent of a 38-point buck he had bagged with the girls. It was too big to be baled so the elves just strapped it to the minivan with twine. It didn’t take us more than a mile down the road to seriously question…well, just about everything. And by that, you know I mean that I questioned my husband’s sanity, wisdom, common sense, and vision acuity. I believe Dwayne began questioning those as well as we tried to shove it through the front door.
How exactly is this Wesley’s fault? Well, usually I am the one who wants a tall tree, and we always come home with a tall tree. However, as I am the one who puts on all the lights and helps the kids decorate it (and then reverses the whole process a month later), I manage to exercise a little restraint. And usually I can count on Dwayne being the voice of reason because he’s the one who has to get the tree in the house and standing upright. (This is where the swearing usually comes in.) But Dwayne and I didn’t use our team magic to pick out this tree. I was knitting in the car while Wesley snored and Dwayne was thinking that this little 7-footer wouldn’t grow another 5 feet in the distance between the field and our living room.
To give you some perspective, at its tallest point, our ceiling is 14’. I realized that I moved the tree a few inches away from the apex and now the angel is touching the ceiling. It took the Little Giant ladder a lot of work to get the lights on all around. It took Dwayne a trip to Target to buy me enough lights to light the thing up. As we were trying to stand it upright, it started to tip and I could barely keep it from crashing to the floor, but I did because I knew it could crush the children underfoot.
As I type this, I realize that the tree must have a name. I’ll give it a big name until Piper comes up with something else. So ladies and gentlemen, I give you….
Dear Mom, Dad, other beloved friends and family,
We are forced to uninvite you for Christmas. We can either fit all of you….or the tree. And the tree ain’t moving.