6 Fingered Baby

December has arrived and so it's tree time. We told the kids we'd go on Saturday, but Dave had to work, so we didn't arrive at Home Depot until well after dark--and it was 10 degrees. As we browsed the aisles, it became quickly apparent that all the trees left were the rejects. Hobo trees at best. I found a Hispanic man who worked there and asked if there were any other trees around, as most of these had major defects. He looks me in the eye and says in perfect Cheech & Chong: "Lady, if you had a baby, and your baby had six fingers, would you call up the doctor and say, 'doctor, my baby has six fingers. I don't love this baby. Take it back.' No. You would love your six fingered baby. You woul love it. Lady, these Christmas trees are like that baby. You pick one, and you love it Lady, you love it. It's the f*x$#!@g Charlie Brown Christmas!" So I walk away, still looking for a non-special needs tree. We get a decent one. Too skinny, too tall, but good enough.

The next day we decorate it and the kids are having a great time. We stategically put the breakable ornaments out of Bea's reach and I'm thinking all is well. Today she spots a tiny porcelain watering can and is flipping out trying to reach it. While visiting my mom's last month, she was insperarable with a little tin watering can and clearly isn't over the attachment. So after trying reason and distraction, I move the ornament even higher on the tree and sit on the ottoman to wait out her hissy fit. I'm doing the behaviorally responsible thing by ignoring Bea's fit, when out of the corner of my eye I see something. I turn and scream as the 7 foot tree comes crashing down on my face. The little Beast has pulled the tree onto me. And didn't even have the courtesy to shout, "Timber!" As I sit there, blood on my face, pine needles in my eyes, branches poking my neck, and sprinkled in shards of broken ornaments, Bea marches up unrepentant and plucks the pink and white watering can ornament off the tree, 4 inches from my face and waltzes off. 20 minutes later (after major damage control), I called Dave crying to tell him our six fingered baby had beat the crap out of me with our six fingered tree. I have two lovely cuts on my nose and black eyes developing. I can't wait to go the the ward Christmas party tomorrow night and have everyone give Dave the suspicious eye...