I wanted it to be like in the movies. Or a Crisco Ad. But it was not. Far from it.

On Friday I headed out to the shops to get some milk and came home with a real life Christmas Tree.  A motherfucking big, bushy, smelly, delicious (and since doing a bit of retrospective research) ridiculously expensive tree. The helpful dude at Thomas Dux made sure it fit into the Mazda,  jamming it in good and proper as to release a thousand pine needles onto the already festy floor. Meh. At least is smells nice now.

I dragged that mofo tree into the house and stuck it on the corner and then looked at it and placed the whole notion in the too hard basket.

You see I had a dream.  A dream that would involve me (quite possibly in a gingham frock) handing out vintage heirloom decorations to my freshly scrubbed children one by one, as I explained where the decoration came from and the significance it has to our family.  There would be friendly and loving discussion, perhaps some cheeky hand holding from Mr Woog and, if the evening was going well,  we could celebrate with a small sherry after the kids had gone to bed.

Mr Woog came home from work and took one look at the huge tree in the corner and said “Are you sure about that?……” Putting me in a bad mood immediately.  He and I then wrestled the tree into the especially bought stand (extra Bux for Mr Dux) which took a long time and a lot of expletives. The kids arrived home and could not have even given a shit that the lounge room resembled a forest.

Mr Woog made himself a vodka cocktail which pissed me off that little bit more.

It was decided that no one REALLY needed a bath,  so we ate dinner and set about getting fantasy family ready. I found the box of decorations and wondered why, in my head, we had a collection of beautiful decorations that were not mainly made up with tatt from the $2 Shop. But most were crap from the $2 shop or things the kids made at daycare from pasta shapes. We did however all have a glass ball with our names on them,  although Mr Woog’s was smashed when we found it. Ironically, Mr Woog was also quite smashed by this stage.

There was no intelligent conversation or quite reflection.  Just grabby hands,  fighting and the occasional “OH, MY, GOD!” delighted squeal from Jack when he came across something particularly glittery.

Eventually the tree was finished.  I wanted to take a nice photo of the kids to send to the Grandparents.

It was a bit of a disaster so we thought individual portraits may work better.

Mr Woog and I sent the kids to their room,  made a vodka and settled down to watch the news. Under the shadow of the Christmas Tree that was a symbol of all that is festive, family and tolerance.  Each time a child came out we told them to go back into their room and play.
It was a Friday. I was over the whole bloody thing.  I just wanted to do it like they did it in the movies. Or an ad. Or like what you see in the Country Road Christmas Catalogue at the very least.
Or like this……
Mr Woog, is that a bauble in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Is your tree up?
Was it a beautiful, bonding experience?