I grew up in a Christmas house. I say that with careful tread, because if you asked my mother today, she might try to tell you that she did not necessarily care for Christmas more than any other woman or parent. I grew up in an enchanted house. A perfect, day-dreamy childhood home. We had egg hunts on Easter, wore giant headphones on the Fourth, and decorated the tree together in December with rules that had been ingrained since we could walk. If you're old enough to know Santa's nine reindeer, you're old enough to know that big, heavy ornaments go on the bottom.. dainty, glass ones up top. Ornaments in a group are not placed right next to each other, but far enough apart in the same quadrant for spectators to realize that they're related, but not be overkill. Tinsel is not clumped, and ugly goes in the back. It's a lot of rules, I get it. But life is full of rules.
When I was just starting out in my first post-college place, my mom and I went to Kohl's and bought the entire St. Nicholas Square ornament line. They were on sale. At the time, Bubba and I lived with his younger brother, and I gave the two of them the long-and-short of decorating a Christmas tree. I snuck out of bed one night and rearranged. On my wedding day, we had a Christmas tree, and after the rehearsal dinner, my bridesmaids helped me decorate. Although I promised to relinquish control, still, they got the lesson. Both trees, for what it's worth, were beautiful.
Anyway, nowadays, Bubba knows his place: he follows me dotingly to the tree farm, tips the young man who ties the tree to the car with a manly bro-shake, finagles the darn thing in the tree stand, and then sits back and drinks whiskey while I fuss over whether or not we need more lights (for the record, the answer is always yes). It may not be a perfect system, but it works for us, and it makes us equally happy.
Behold, the tree of 2012:
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