If it were up to me, the O’Hara family Christmas tree would go up a few days before Christmas Day and would come down shortly after. But as I and countless other married men before me have learned, it is not in fact up to me. The only leverage I ever had in the matter went out the window when we made the switch from real trees to an artifical one. By delaying the real tree’s delivery as long as possible and then constantly complaining about my allergies, dry pine needles and fire hazards, I was able to decrease our annual pine’s visitation by a week or two. I lost my bargaining chips when we switched to an artifical tree several years ago. With my tree delivery services no longer required, our fake tree now gets ceremoniously drug out of the hall closet and assembled the first time I turn my back after Thanksgiving.

For us, the pros of fake trees outweigh the cons. About the only con I can think of is that fake trees don’t smell, a problem easily rectified by pine-scented candles, potpourri, or car fresheners — none of which matters much to me; my nose has been stopped up for twenty years so I can’t smell them anyway. Fake trees sure are a lot less hassle. Ours assembles in minutes, has built in lights, and at no point involves sawing, watering, or vacuuming. Still, it doesn’t quite seem like Christmas without the month-long worry of something catching on fire.

This year, as much as Mason has helped with decorating the tree, Morgan has unhelped. The tree is sparasely decorated from the ground to around the 3 foot mark; Morgan’s removed just about everything she can reach, and has begun using the couch to work her way up to the higher levels. The tree now resembles my old Grandpa O’Hara’s head; mostly bare, with the remaining ornaments clumped together in one small area. Morgan, not unlike Cinderella, decided the blue and gold beads Mason and Susan draped on the tree would make a lovely fashion accessory. As for the plastic snowflakes and plastic ornaments (we’re no dummies), Morgan removes them and brings them to us one at a time, usually during dinner.

Our Christmas tree needs a box to stand on. Last year, Susan kidnapped a computer from our garage (one I had just repaired for a customer and was getting ready to return), draped a blanket over it and put our tree on top of it. It took me several days to realize I wasn’t crazy and hadn’t lost the computer. Other than having to explain to a client why their machine now had a slight treestand-shaped dent in the side it, no harm no foul. This year, Susan asked me to build something out of wood. My woodworking skills are legendary … in a bad way. The box isn’t quite square, has splinters on almost every edge and has corners sharp enough to take Santa’s eye out should he slip on the plate of cookies we always leave out, but it serves its purpose and doesn’t look too terrible with a blanket atop it, hiding my un-handywork. The box’s main purpose is to raise the tree off the ground high enough for train clearance. I don’t know if setting up a choo-choo train is still a tradition for most people, but it is for us. Mason got a trainset from my dad his very first Christmas; this year, his cousin Griffin got one too.

Next year I’m lobbying for a giant flat screen television hooked up to a PC, running a Christmas tree screensaver and Railroad Construction Set. Somehow, I see myself getting outvoted 3-to-1 once again.