A Perfect Christmas Tree

My mother had strict rules about how one decorates a Christmas tree. They were good rules, generally, gleaned from years as an interior decorator and jobs like being a merchandiser at Goldsmith’s (a now defunct department store). Apparently she decorated something like 50 trees one year, and she learned a thing or two.

The rules went like this:

• A tree is preferably real because the smell is amazing. A fake one will do if you must.

• Lights must be a soft white. Colored lights are tacky. Lights are the first thing on the tree, and the goal in winding them through the branches is to hide the wires as much as possible.

• Next layer on the tree is some sort of ribbon– wide ribbon with wire is best for making good shapes and curves throughout the branches. The color of ribbon can be red or gold or silver, whatever you have that looks nice and you have a lot of. Try to wind the ribbon so it fills holes and catches light but isn’t too uniform throughout the tree.

• The big ball ornaments are next. These go deep into the tree to give it depth. Little ornaments go at the top of the tree or on the edges of branches.

• Last is the tree topper. You can get creative with what tops the tree, but a star or angel is always nice.

• Try to avoid a bunch of goofy Santas and snow men if you can. Go for reds and sparkle.

• Give an even distribution to your tree, and don’t overload it. Also don’t get too uniform or matchy-poo with it.

I can’t decorate a tree without thinking of my mother, and her way of doing it does create good results. However, my husband and toddler have given me a different perspective this year.

My husband is from Jersey. He has a fabulous love of life and no fear of being “tacky” if needed. He is great medicine for my southern woman propriety at times, and he challenges my habitual ways of doing things often. He also loves Christmas.

Our first Christmas together, I taught him the tree rules. He was very excited for the Christmas-ing of our little apartment that year, but after I explained the rules, he backed off of the tree completely. It wasn’t until our third Christmas (this year) that he said it out loud– “I can only handle a certain amount of your fussiness.” And so I paused.

Something else I discovered this year is that I most likely have a neurodivergent brain. Or maybe we all have neurodivergent brains, but we’re just now getting names for what exact flavors they are. In any case, I resonate with what I hear on high-masking, high-functioning ADHD in females. I notice EVERYTHING and sometimes have a difficult time discerning what should have priority over other things. I also have about ten tabs open and running in the brain computer constantly. This allows me to process complex layers of information when I get time and space to hyper focus on them. When I don’t get that time and space though, I am spinning over which of the ten things in my brain screaming at me are most important. This process is also so normal for me, that I don’t realize I’m doing it.

So ok, yes. Perhaps I am being fussy with the Christmas tree.

My 18 month old daughter brought the point home. She, as toddlers do, started pulling ornaments off of the tree. I had expected her to mess with it a bit and had prepped some non- breakable balls with pipe cleaner hooks. I did not expect my nails-on-the-chalkboard reaction when she pulled these off of the tree, however. Or worse, when she put them back on, but all in a clump. Or on the edge of branches instead of deep in the tree. Or all on one side. Or on the furniture around the tree. Or on the floor.

After about the third time of rearranging my daughter’s ornament hanging, I felt my husband’s annoyance. I sighed. And then laughed. This is ridiculous. I am being ridiculous. What is more important– the perfect tree? Or my daughter’s delight at the game of hanging them and pulling them down? My mother is not going to think less of me for breaking her tree rules. She is dead! And she would be the first to break a rule someone else invented anyway. Also no one is judging me by the beauty or lopsidedness of my Christmas tree! Have I had lunch? Is the child safe? Does my husband enjoy being around me? Can I give myself and my family a little compassion as we head into holiday time? Perhaps, dear neurodivergent brain, these are the more pressing concerns.

And just perhaps, it’s all a metaphor anyway. (The importance of metaphor– one of the first deep things I remember my mother teaching me.) I get flustered at the imperfection of the Christmas tree because I get flustered at the imperfection of me. Maybe my husband and daughter are in fact giving me the greatest gift this year– an invitation to see the beauty and joy of “imperfection,” to shed my silly ideas of what “perfect” is, and to embrace the authentic, goofy-snowmen-and-colored-lights neurodivergent, beautiful me. They are also teaching me the joy of Christmas again.

And so, this year I am embracing the imperfection of the Christmas tree.

Oh Tennenbaum, Oh Tannenbaum, how kooky are thy branches…

Currently there are three giant ball ornaments piled on top of each other on a lower branch. Some chicken sunglasses have found a home in there as well as a Mardi Gras throw or two. There are white lights and gold ribbon but also a giant elf with baby girl’s face on it, a sparkly donut, a few rosy-cheeked snow men, a fairy playing guitar on top, and a partridge in a fake tree. I think it’s the most lovely tree I’ve ever had.

Looking back on it, I think my mother was so fussy with the do’s and don’ts of Christmas because she wanted to stave off sadness. Or control something in her reality. Her faith was a flickering candle, as they say, but her consistent access point to the divine was beauty. Maybe she just wanted to make something beautiful.

In any case, I am grateful for what she taught me, but both my husband and daughter’s unreservedly joyful take on Christmas is just infectious. For what is Christmas, but a time of year for gathering around light and remembering Love itself? And what is sadness but just joy returning?

And what, dear Mamma, is more beautiful than a well-loved, perfect imperfect Christmas tree?