I put on a CD of Nat King Cole’s Christmas carols, do a little stretching—okay, feeling vaguely like Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon, but that’s fine. Anything to keep this fun.

Jess, William, and I fling open all the doors, grab a piece of tree, and drag-carry our increasingly less noble noble fir into the living room.

We get it there, and it lies in the middle of the floor, hogging space. I know the man at the lot said it was only seven feet, but I didn’t really think about girth. It’s a big wide tree. Wow. It’s sure going to look good when it’s decorated.

I stand back, rub sap off my hands. William plucks at his shirt. Sap. Jessica’s lavender sweatshirt. Sap. Good. It’s a healthy big wide tree.

Still rubbing my hands, I share the plan: “We’re going to slide the tree into the stand while it’s still on the ground. And then together we’ll lift it. Then while you guys hold it steady, I’ll tighten the screws and we can start decorating.”

It’s a good plan. It should work.

It doesn’t.

And of course it doesn’t. Nothing about Christmas is easy. It’s the most wonderful—cut, edit, paste—stressful time of year.

The tree’s lower branches won’t let us get the tree stand ring high enough around the trunk to hold the tree upright in the stand. And as nice as the tree looks horizontal on my carpet, I worry about twenty-some days of sap leekage.

We lower the tree, and screws are loosened with great difficulty (I shouldn’t have been so zealous with the pliers until I knew the tree would fit).

We’re going to have to cut branches. And of course, I don’t have any tools for cutting branches.

In the divorce Daniel got the second house, the Porsche, the new young girlfriend, and the old saw we used for things like this.

I should have bought a saw. I bought a toolbox when Daniel and I separated—a nice red-painted box packed with tools—but a saw wasn’t in it. And in case you’re wondering, I’m the kind of designer who has good ideas, not the kind who’s crafty herself. A pity, I think now, because maybe if I were more crafty and better with my hands, my tree would be standing up properly right now.

“How about scissors?” Jessica suggests.

“Scissors will break,” I answer, sitting on my heels. I hear Nat croon, but it’s not helping. I’m not happy. I’m really not happy. We left for the tree lot at four. It’s now past six. The kids haven’t had dinner, done homework. And the tree is still prone, a massive green whale on my cream thick pile carpet.

“How about a knife?” William offers.

“Sure.” I’m battling here for warmth and charm. It’s December, Christmas, fun, family fun, make it fun, make it special for the kids. “Get the bread knife, though. That’s the long one with the serrated edge—” I see his blank look, break off. “Never mind. I’ll get it.”