Fake or Real:

“Let’s get an artificial tree this year,” I blurt out. “They look so real, with lights already installed.”

My daughter’s jaw drops and her face rearranges into that, have-you-lost-your-mind expression she has perfected over the past two years as a teenager. “I can’t believe you said that!” she gasps. “Christmas wouldn't be real with a plastic tree and by the way, did you know that the first artificial tree was made by a company who manufactured toilet brushes? Do you really want a giant toilet brush in the corner of the living room?”

She’s like that, my daughter, always bombarding me with facts. “It’s just…,” I stammer...“it’d be so much easier.” Less hassle I mean to say, but decide against it.

I see the work of a real tree play out before me like in one of those flip books. First comes buying the tree, which, in the most idyllic of circumstances, requires strolling around a tree lot in search of the most perfect specimen. This, for some, may bring forth visions of feathery snowflakes glittering in yellow pools of lamplight while white bearded men (not unlike Santa Claus) hand out steaming cups of hot chocolate with candy canes hung over the rims, while Christmas carols play from a nearby loud speaker.

Or, as has been our predicament over the past few years, the search does not take us to a quaint tree lot, but rather to an IKEA parking lot, or outside the front doors of the local Save-On Foods store, where we’re guaranteed to find the most economical tree.

“Did we bring the bungee cords?” my husband will undoubtedly enquire, his hands searching the inside storage compartments of the van, followed by, “Where's the twine?” and , my favorite, “Maybe we can cram it inside the van?”

The outdoor temperature will likely be a record low and the kids, who have not bothered with mitts or tuques—what teenager ever does— will swear they will die a horrible, frostbitten death for which, as their parents, we will be utterly and completely responsible.

Once the chosen tree makes it to our humble abode, my husband will commence the annual search for the handsaw with which to trim the bottom of the trunk, followed by the equally frantic hunt for the tree stand with its various bits and screws that seem to have vanished without a trace. After about an hour of wrestling the tree into the tree stand, the twine will have to be snipped and the branches left to unfurl overnight.

In the morning, the tree will undoubtedly lean to one side or another and the needles…oh…the needles…tick,tick,tick…will drop to the floor by the hundreds. The thought that this tree was already past its prime when we bought it and is nearing its untimely demise will cross my mind, but I will smile and fetch the broom and dustpan without a word.

The boxes of ornaments will litter the living room floor for days. The lights will be tangled like tongue twisters and half the bulbs will twinkle, and then burn out with an infinitesimal pop.

Over the next two weeks, my husband will scratch his head and wonder why the tree isn’t drinking the water he has been faithfully pouring into the base of the stand. There’ll be the question—the same one he asks every year—whether we should give the tree Ginger ale. “It’s all about the sugar levels,” he’ll declare and I’ll nod and sigh.

Now, if it were up to me, I’d put up a Charlie Brown tree—a two footer I’d decorate with tiny wooden ornaments and a single string of winking lights. I’d toss handfuls of silvery icicles onto the branches and let them land in clumps, willy-nilly. I’d buy the most expensive chocolate balls wrapped in shiny foil and make an edible tree skirt out of them.

But since family is a partnership, it’s not solely up to me and in a way I’m glad. Our kids are getting older, both dipping their toes into the murky waters of teenagehood, and I remind myself that it has only been a few years since they caught onto Santa’s imaginary status and accepted that it was Dad who left the bite marks in the cookies, the milk half-drunk, and a handwritten note that said, ‘Thanks for the treat’.

“A real tree,” my daughter insists, “is our tradition. Why would you want to break it?”

As I prepare to negate her, I realize that she may be right. I suppose resurrecting an artificial tree from a cardboard box may be a Christmas tradition for some, but for our family, it has been the trip to the tree lot, the bungee cords and twine, the tangled lights and falling needles, the Ginger ale, and scent of pine. I realize that traditions are the air we breathe at Christmas.

“Just this one last time,” I say to my daughter, knowing full well that we’ll have the same conversation at this time next year.