We’re all familiar with the artwork of Norman Rockwell. He gives us idyllic images of Christmas cheer wherein familial joy and the scent of home-baked cookies actually waft off the canvas. In MY reality, the source of any wafting scent is usually a diaper. Well, so what if we’re no Rockwell painting? Memorable scenes of Christmas cheer happen to be our specialty.
For years we used an artificial Christmas tree. But the tedious and unending task of unbending the wire branches, or “fluffing,” as we came to call it, never caught on as a joyful Christmas tradition. The sing-song invitation, “Children, gather ‘round, for it’s time to fluff the tree!” was met with groans that made even the Grinch sound optimistic. So last year, we opted for a live tree.
As the tree was headed for the roof of our tiny Civic, the memorable scene of Christmas cheer began. The two older children were happily chasing each other nearby, while I gave the baby an impromptu feeding in the front seat. Armed with twine and a knot-tying merit badge or two, my husband secured the tree to the car’s roof. It was a job well done.
Too well done, as it turned out. When Daddy and the children tried to get in the car to bring the tree home, the doors were all tied shut.
Feeling sheepish, but never losing his “can-do” attitude, my husband freed the last in the sequence of bound doors—the rear driver’s side door—and the kids easily scampered over the baby’s car seat to make room for their dad. He settled into the back seat without difficulty, but his face showed strained confidence at the prospect of transferring himself from there to the driver’s seat.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay there and I’ll drive?” I offered. I had only a gear-shift to surmount, and I figured the oldest child had a much better chance of making it unscathed to the front seat than did my sanguine, robust-ish husband.
“No, no,” he enthused. “I can make it just fine.” Tasks requiring upper body strength are my hubby’s forte. A lithe swinging of the feet between the bucket seats while hefting his upper body with raw triceps power was, I’m sure, what he had in mind. But no Civic has ever been sold on the merits of head room, so Daddy barreled through torso-first instead. It became obvious his plan lacked forethought when we discovered he was soundly wedged, face down in the dead center of the vehicle. Feet trapped by the baby seat, belly firmly packed against the center console, he finally admitted, “I’m stuck.”
I began to giggle. The children began to giggle. Daddy began to giggle. We couldn’t stop. Giggles turned to tear-streaked guffaws as, straining, grunting, laughing, and exerting all his might, Dad eventually broke free from his bucket-seat captors. But the battle was not over, as he found himself sideways across the front two seats, one of which was occupied by me and a nursing newborn.
At various points during his continued struggle, the windshield wipers demonstrated their full array of speeds, the radio was put to scanning every station, the hazard lights hazarded, and the car’s horn played a monotone yet lively concerto to an audience of tree lot patrons. Our breathless laughter continued long after my poor husband was upright again, sweat beading down his temples and tears of laughter striping his flushed face.
Back at home, no fluffing was necessary as the scent of fresh-cut pine wafted through the house. We had to call Grandma to share the hilarity and, as we did, I truly think we experienced elevated levels of familial joy. Norman Rockwell? Perhaps not. Memorable scene of Christmas cheer? Absolutely. And we will cherish it for many years to come.
