I've been really frustrated of "late," if you couldn't tell from my pilot post. Particularly when I'm tired and required to put out more than I have, I stop and all of my failings and shortcomings wash over me with the blunt trauma force of an avalanche of boulders.
It's been a difficult 10 years. My marriage and the birth of my children notwithstanding, I sit and wonder sometimes paralyzed by that dull ache of regret and futility rooted in the pit of my stomach.
It could be the ulcer in my duodenum.
Duodenum. Duodenum. That word just doesn't get enough mileage. Seriously overlooked body part.
But yesterday, while dealing with a bunch of final deadlines, I resolved to go with my family and get a Christmas Tree. My girls bundled like two little pink and grey Michelin babies waddled around the small, wet, cold makeshift tree lot. Although I have my own intuition about the trees, I automatically acquiesce to my husband because he's from Maine. Enough said.
Finally, however, my impulse gets the best of me and I spot The Tree. It's tall and although it's not completely opened up, I can tell it will be pretty damn plush. My husband worries it will be too tall- I inhale- maybe I'm wrong and The Tree is not The Tree at all, but merely A Tree. A very tall tree but certainly missing the definitiveness of a definite article that makes The Tree.
No, This Is The Tree. Some background: growing up, we always had this little five freaking foot artificial tree, which seemed big and fine until I approached, oh I don't know, the age of eight. Suddenly I realized the tree was more shrub than arbor, which added to the growing holiday disenfranchisement of a little girl approaching her tween years. From this point, I always wanted that mythological tree, the big ceiling-scraper with a ton of twinkling lights, garland, covered in ornaments, and at the base, a huge nativity metropolis, complete with holy scene, church, post office, carolers, angels, school house, animals, cars, fences, and the whole lot encircled by an automated train running on a track.
Back to The Tree. We get it and lug it home. My husband hauls out the ornaments. I unwrap every ornament, each one with its own history from my husband's past, my past, or our collective (but relatively short) past. The old ones are...old, and we place these in a position of earned security and respect at the top of the tree; safe from curious little fingers, we position the remnants of our childhoods just out of our children's reach. For now. And anyway, that damn metal dragon my husband has from I think 1983 is an incisive weapon rivaling any Chinese star.
The room smells of pine. It is an amazingly simple pleasure. And I realize there is something that I really need to say: I am so thankful. These past months for my husband and I have been a struggle; this will continue for another year or so. But I look at this tree that stretches up to the ceiling and I remember that I am lucky enough to have this tree in my house, that we have a house to put the tree in, that we can pay for the house (some days, it's tight), that we have food to eat, that we are relatively healthy. I have the luxury of having First World Problems, which are mostly just a big pain in the ass.
I shall now go pamper my duodenum.
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