Bah-Humburglary

“I think I want a tree this year,” Taylor announced one night last week. 

I looked up from the sink, where I was doing dishes.

“Oh, I know what you’re doing!” I said. “You’re doing that thing where you ruminate about something for like a week, and then you spring your final decision on me —without assessing my opinion first!” Pause. “You know, it’s not my favorite thing.”

Taylor: <grunts sheepishly> 

I went back to scrubbing a pot.

Taylor sighed, then conceded, “Ok, what do you think about getting a tree?” 

I shrugged. “Well, they’re freaking expensive, and we’ve never gotten one before.”

“Exactly! I haven’t had a tree in eight years.” 

“That’s not even true!” I snapped. “You went home for Christmas until your mom died [in March 2016], and she was the queen of Christmas — in contrast to you, since you’re the king of bah-humbug. You don’t even like Christmas music.”

“I bet I wouldn’t be so bah-humbug if we had a tree.” 

I snorted. “I’m sure.”

Suddenly, Bo shrieked in delight from the dining room, and our conversation was put on hold as Taylor raced to mediate the interaction between our two children. He came back a few minutes later holding Australis.

“You know, sometimes his kisses are a bit aggressive,” my husband said. It’s true — Borealis is still learning the concept “gentle”. (You can read more about Bo’s affection for his younger sister in A Firstborn Becomes a Sibling.) 

I laughed, then returned to our previous topic. “If we had gone earlier in the season, we could have gotten a tree from the landlord’s land. But, neither of our cars could make it into rural Idaho Springs with the level of snow they’ve gotten, so it’s a moot point now.”

Taylor: <grunts in agreement> “You’re not wrong there. But, we could just buy a tree at Home Depot this year.” 

I eyed my husband incredulously. “Really? And you’ll be ok with an expensive, pre-cut, pre-trimmed tree?” 

Taylor dropped his gaze. “Yeah, probably. I mean, I guess.”

I snorted. “Compelling.” 

Finally done with the dishes, I took Australis from my husband and went to the couch to nurse her. Borealis immediately came over to check on us and, you know, stick his finger in her ear. 

Taylor followed us into the living room and tried again to convince me. “Think about how excited Bo would be to have a tree! He’s old enough to appreciate one this year.” 

“Then he’ll be old enough to appreciate one next year, too!” I retorted. 

Taylor continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “And think about Nova. She would be so excited if we got a tree.” 

My husband had a point. Nova — the female half of our best couple friends — is another queen of Christmas. Christmas music, Christmas lights, Christmas foods, Christmas parades… she does it all. I glanced guiltily at her latest gift: an advent calendar that I had yet to open. 

Taylor sensed a crack in my resolve. “What if I just take Bo and go look for a tree at Home Depot?” 

I sighed. “Whatever, babe. It’s up to you, I guess.”

Taylor: <grunts in triumph> “Alright Bo, let’s get your jacket on so we can get in the car!”

Bo ran to the closet, and Taylor began absentmindedly whistling Oh Christmas Tree. 

“Not helping your case!” I bellowed. (See the end of The Birth of Borealis: Part I for a discussion of my feelings about whistling.) 

“Sorry!” Taylor laughed. 

And with that, he and Bo were off to Home Depot. 

---

In an unexpected twist, they were back within twenty minutes. 

“Um… did you get a tree?” I asked. 

Taylor: <grunts in frustration> “No. He peed through his clothes the second I got him out of the carseat. Once it soaked through my sweatshirt, I decided that we wouldn’t be getting a Home Depot tree this year.”

The pair disappeared into Bo’s room, then reemerged a minute later. This time, Bo was wearing pajamas and — presumably — a fresh diaper. 

Taylor went back outside, then reappeared with a tree stand. “But, I did get this, because no matter where we get a tree, we’ll need a stand.”

“We could still just skip the tree and save money!” I suggested. 

Taylor didn’t answer. I thought the matter might be over, but I had seriously underestimated his attachment to the idea of a Christmas tree. 

It wasn’t long before my husband began our son’s bedtime routine. At one point, Bo sprinted out of the bathroom with toothbrush in hand (which is, of course, the safest way to run). He got all the way to the couch before Taylor caught up with him and herded him back toward the bathroom. 

“Go back from whence you came!” Taylor mock-shouted… because that joke never gets old. 

Several minutes later, my husband returned to the living room and stood rigidly before me. 

I glanced up from my phone and asked my usual question. “What are your goals for tonight?” 

Taylor shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Well, I was still hoping to get a tree.”

“Ughhhhh,” I moaned. “I thought you decided against Home Depot, though… and I don’t think the Golden Optimists’ sale is open this late.” (It was a little after 8pm.)

“No, that’s already closed,” Taylor confirmed. “But, I was actually planning on getting one from somewhere else.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Care to divulge where?”

“Well, you know that wooded area over on the other side of the neighborhood?”

“The one that’s about to be deforested and developed?”

“Exactly.”

Taylor looked at me significantly. A second passed before I yelled, “Seriously?”

Taylor: <grunts in confirmation>

I stared at my [normally] straight-laced husband in disbelief. “You’re going to steal a tree?” 

“More like… liberating a tree.“

“I can’t believe you!” 

“Yes, you can.”

I glowered in response, and Taylor continued. “Look. Either way, this time next year, that tree is not gonna be there. Would you rather it come be our Christmas tree first, or just hang out there until it gets slaughtered with all its tree buddies instead?” 

I couldn’t really rebut that argument, so I tried a different approach. “Well, are you at least going to wait until later so that your thievery is less conspicuous?”

“Nope.” Taylor pivoted on his heel and headed toward the exit.

“Wait, what?”

As Taylor reached our front door, he explained, “We gotta have enough time to set up and trim the tree, babe!” 

And with that, he was gone again. I heard some brief metallic scuffling, then the sound of the screen door slamming, then nothing. 

---

My husband returned about forty minutes later, sweaty and out-of-breath. 

I had been doing laundry with Australis, so I didn’t immediately notice his return. (To clarify — when I said that I did laundry “with” Australis, I mean that I folded clothes while she just laid there.) By the time I returned to the living room, Taylor had almost caught his breath. 

Noting a conspicuous lack of tree, I asked, ”So… how did it go?”

Taylor finished his glass of water, then responded, “Well, I got a tree! It’s still outside.” 

“Oh,” I said lamely. 

Taylor pulled out a tape measure and quickly ascertained the height of our ceiling. “Ok, it can’t be taller than eight feet.” 

He left the house once more, and shortly thereafter, the sound of sawing filtered inside. After a few minutes, he pushed open the door, carrying… this. 

Let me be explicit here. There was nothing remotely Christmasy about the — literal — juniper bush that Taylor dragged inside my house that night. I can’t remember if I laughed or cried. I decided that maybe our prolonged city living had finally snapped the delicate mental constitution of my rural Minnesota boy. 

But, then I took another look at that rural Minnesota boy. Taylor was beaming. I have never seen someone so proud of something so ugly. After loosely securing the tree in the stand, he turned to me with bright eyes and said, “Ok Wifey! Help me get this vertical!” 

I was reluctant to have anything to do with the “tree”, but I dutifully set Australis down and joined my enthusiastic spouse. After a quick analysis of the tree, I pointed out, “I can’t make this vertical, because the trunk isn’t actually straight!”

Taylor blew out a breath and shrugged. “Yeah, well, I guess do the best you can.” 

I picked a relatively central portion of the trunk upon which to base my assessment of “vertical”. I shifted the tree while Taylor fiddled with the screws on the stand. 

“A little more towards the TV — no, not that much — ok, now more towards the table, too.” 

Eventually, I announced, “Alrighty… that is about as vertical as this thing can get.” 

Taylor gave the screws a final tightening, then rose to stand beside me. “What a fine-looking tree!” he exclaimed heartily. 

I whirled on him. “Are you kidding me? This thing is hideous! How did you even pick it out?”

Taylor: <grunts in annoyance> “Well, my options were sort of limited. It’s not like they had any spruces over there, so this was about the best that we were going to get. Plus, I didn’t want to call attention to myself, so I couldn’t exactly walk around with a light until I found the perfect tree.” 

“Were you seen?”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess. No one saw me cutting down the tree, but a car turned onto the road and saw me running across the street with it.” Taylor started to chuckle. “I think I probably looked like the Grinch, only really startled.” He pantomimed the picture below, only with an expression of petrified terror.

“I wonder what they thought was going on,” Taylor continued. “Like, no one would expect that someone in this neighborhood would have to steal a Christmas tree.” (We rent a relatively inexpensive house in a rather ritzy neighborhood.)

I laughed. “Yeah, that’s true. Maybe they thought that you had parked your car over in the neighborhood so there would be less chance of discovery while you tied on the tree.”

Taylor: <grunts contemplatively> “Yeah… and that actually would have been a good idea, if I had had to use the car. Like if we had lived further away.” 

I glared at my husband. “I’d like to think that if we lived further away, you wouldn’t have come up with this harebrained scheme.”

Taylor ignored me. “Regardless of what they thought, I kinda hope they, like, snapped a picture or something. I think it’d make for a good story.” 

“Wait, you want someone to have evidence of your crime?” I asked incredulously. “Aren’t you worried that someone is going to turn us in?”

“Um… no, not really. And even if they did, I don’t feel like this was something bad. Either way, this tree is ending up as mulch. We might as well enjoy it first.” 

Since there was no way to un-cut down the tree, I decided to let the matter rest. As Taylor walked into the kitchen, I swept the juniper detritus that littered my entryway and attempted to vacuum up the pile — only to discover that my hand vacuum was severely clogged. Frustrated, I carried the vacuum into the kitchen, where Taylor was heating up the last of the hard cider from our Halloween party. 

As he warmed up our drinks, he reminisced, “My dad and I used to go to the same place every year to cut down our tree, and they always served cider afterwards.” He removed his mug from the microwave and took a sip. “And you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if they had added a little something stronger to the dads’ drinks.”

“Mm-hmm,” I acknowledged. I was crouching next to the trash, pulling out clump after clump of fur/hay combo from the vacuum’s hose. That‘ll teach me to clean the bunny’s cage with my cherished hand vac.

Taylor noticed my reticence and peered over my shoulder. “You’re so tough, Wifey!” 

”Ugh,” I grumbled. I continued to chip away at the clog, which had probably been months in the making. I even needed a pipe cleaner to help break up the blockage. 

Meanwhile, Taylor sipped his cider in companionable silence. Eventually, he left the kitchen and went back to puttering around his tree. When I finally finished de-gunking my vacuum, Taylor called me back into the living room. 

“Ok babe, have you ever trimmed a tree before?”

“Gosh, no, what kind of freaking country bumpkin do you think I am?” So, maybe I was a little bit sensitive at my lack of rustic Christmas skills. 

Thankfully, Taylor took my overreaction in stride. “Well, the first step is to identify the front of the tree. I think it’s this part over here.”

I circled the juniper to examine a section that looked about as sparse as every other section. Continuing my circumnavigation, I decided on a different area that seemed slightly less scruffy.

“Maybe this side?” I suggested. 

Taylor examined the indicated section. “Yeah, I think that looks good!”

He popped into the mudroom to grab our garden shears. “So, now we need to trim everything so that it’s, you know, the right shape.” He stepped back to eye the tree and — presumably — plan his attack. 

Soft baby noises suggested that Australis was beginning to wake, so I hurried to complete an errand before her whimpers became cries. I raced down to our storage room in the basement and cast around a cursory glance. Sure enough, resting atop our landlord’s old piano were the two boxes of on-sale Christmas lights that we purchased this past January. I grabbed them and dashed back upstairs. [Note: I probably shouldn’t be dashing yet at this point in my postpartum journey.]

Taylor was snipping at the tree when I returned to the living room. A pile of juniper clippings on the floor indicated a level of effort that the still-scruffy tree did not reflect. 

“Um, how’s it going?” I queried. 

Taylor assessed his seeming lack of progress. “It’s gonna take a little bit,” he conceded. 

“Yeah, a little bit of magic,” I grumbled. 

Australis was now mewling loudly, so I retrieved her and sat down to nurse again. 

Taylor continued to trim away branch after branch, and slowly, the tree began to vaguely resemble its more noble fir cousins. 

“My mom always used to trim the tree,” Taylor murmured. “I watched her do this every year.”

I looked up but didn’t answer at first. Taylor rarely talks about his late mother, so I was loath to interrupt. Silence prevailed for several minutes, and Taylor continued to trim the tree in a contemplative mood. Eventually, he looked up and smiled softly. “At least she taught me well, huh?” 

“I miss her too, babe.” 

Taylor nodded, and just like that, he was all business again. Gesturing to the tree, he sighed, “Well, this is about as good as it’s gonna get, so it’s time for lights.” Then, with a slightly panicked glance, he asked, “Wait, do we even have lights?”

I pointed at the two boxes stacked on the couch. “Remember how we bought those for a buck each at Walgreens this past year?” 

“No, but I’m glad you did!”

Taylor removed the lights and began to unwind the first set. Meanwhile, I finished nursing Australis and restored my bra to its proper location. (Welcome back to stories in which this blog’s name has some relevance.)

“Now, the key to effectively lighting a tree is to place the majority of the lights near the trunk. That way, the tree seems to glow from the inside, and the lights don’t get in the way of hanging ornaments.” 

I glanced up. “Uh, I’m sorry, is there an intro that I missed here? Or did you just launch into a classic Taylor lecture, sans explanation?”

Taylor turned and cast me a sardonic glare. “Oh, I thought you’d want to know how to properly light a tree, since you’ll be the one doing it next year.” 

I let loose a surprised bark of laughter. “Oh, will I now? In that case, I’ll probably just do what my family always did, which was to string the lights on the outside of the tree.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pause. “Where did you hang the ornaments!?”

I shrugged. “On the lights.”

Taylor sniffed pretentiously and quipped, “Well, you’re wrong.” He finished lighting the tree in silence. 

By the time both sets of lights were hung, our Christmas shrub actually looked surprisingly decent. Taylor stepped back to assess the final product with Australis and me. 

“Not too shabby, huh?”

I smirked. “Not too shabby, I guess. I know you’re extremely pleased with yourself.” 

Taylor attempted to smother his self-satisfied grin. “Um… no.”

“Right.”

He shrugged. “Whatever. But hey, I have to fill up this tree stand before we go to bed, or else all the water will be gone by morning.” 

I nodded and continued to bounce my sleepy daughter. Taylor, unsurprisingly, spilled water all over the floor — but I think at least half the liquid made it into the tree stand. 

After mopping up the puddle, Taylor asked, “How long do you think it’ll take Bo to notice that there’s water in the tree stand?” 

For once, I was optimistic. “Probably not until noon, at least.”

---

P.S. Oh, and for the record — Nova was excited about our Christmas tree.