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I jump up on the hay rack next to my daughter and turn towards my troop as my husband settles in next to me.  He lays down the little saw he picked up to cut down our Christmas tree as I begin to address our kids.

“So, what are we going to write down in your books as our first Christmas tradition?”

“Cutting down our Christmas tree!” Abner and Alastair shout in unison.

“Right,” I grin.  “What details should we include?”

“We get to ride on this hay rack,” Abner points out.

“And Daddy picked up a saw from that little shack so he can cut down our tree!” Alastair adds.

“Yeah, and I’m going to help him.  That’s why I wore my gloves.  So I can help him carry the tree back to the hay rack,” Everett informs us all.

“But,” Janna points out, “everyone knows that the best part is getting a cookie and hot chocolate when we’re done.”

I glance at my eldest son, the only one who has yet to contribute a single sentence to our little project.  He is staring down at where his hand is touching Emmie’s.  I smile at them.  She’s looking up into his face with an expression of such sweet vulnerability.  I almost feel jealous for a moment at the freshness of their fragile adoration of each other.  

But then I remember all the years my husband and I put into growing a good marriage, and I realize that although those euphoric first days are behind us, they’ve been replaced by something infinitely more precious.  And much rarer.  A patient understanding and acceptance that has stood the test of time and trial alike.  A rock-solid trust and a steadfast faithfulness that has weathered more storms than I can count.  Certainly, more than I ever anticipated enduring.  I hope that someday Kookie and Emmie will be the ones sitting on this hay rack together watching contentedly as their own children enjoy our first family tradition.

A few minutes later, we all jump off the hay rig to go pursue the perfect tree.  Kookie is the first one off.  I don’t miss him turning to hold his arms up towards Emmie.  As I watch her gracefully fall into them, I can’t help but smile.  Emmie has come with us to chop down a tree every year for as long as I can remember.  I don’t recall Kookie ever helping her climb down.  At least, not since she was tiny.  But now he’s treating her like she’s made of spun glass.  

I’m surprised that Janna still hasn’t taken notice of her older brother’s behavior.  But she and Lyric are already several feet into the field.  She’s just sure that she saw the perfect tree a quarter mile back as we passed the lot along the road.

I grimace.  This is my least favorite part.  Because, ideally, I would like the perfect tree.  But after years of chopping down our own tree, I’ve come to the conclusion that the only perfect trees are sold on tree lots.  The most evenly shaped tree we ever bought was the one we had to buy the year that the skies decided to dump ice on us on Thanksgiving.  The hay rack refused to take us to the fields that year.  Besides, all the trees were frozen, encapsulated in a layer of crystal-clear ice.  We had to pick a tree from those already chopped.  

Although it was the best-looking tree we ever bought, I found the entire experience lacking.  Most of the fun is found in riding the hayrack, picking our own – albeit imperfect – tree, and watching my husband saw back and forth until he’s finally liberated that lovely plant from the ground.  The boys take such pride in helping their father with each step.  And, of course, Janna claims veto power each year.  If she doesn’t approve the tree, then it’s staying in the ground.  Occasionally, I cast my vote too.  But, mostly, I watch the antics of my five children and their two – make that three this year – friends.

I haven’t even taken five steps into the field when I hear Abs cry out, “Mommy!  Help!  Something’s stuck to my sock!”

I roll my eyes.  I already know what it is.  We deal with this every single year.  It’s a little cocklebur.  Only this time, it’s brought its family along with it.  I spend a few seconds carefully grasping one tine between my long fingernails in an effort to avoid stabbing myself with the crabby things.  I hate cockleburs.  So do my kids.

Suddenly, Janna cries out, “This one is perfect!  Don’t you think?”

Everyone does not think.  Everett insists he’s found a better one ten feet to the right.  

“What about this one?” Alastair asks in a cheerful tone as he points at a tree whose back he cannot see.

But I can see it.  And its rusty needles.  That tree is half-dead on the back end.  It will definitely be staying in the ground.

“I like this one,” Abner asserts as he stands in front of a tree that is no bigger than he is.

“I think that one is a tad small, kiddo,” I remark as my eyes scan the area for the one child of mine who has yet to cast his vote.  

But I can’t find Kookie.  He’s nowhere to be seen.  Neither is Emmie.

Now where did those two go?