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.”

One bread knife later, I’m sawing at the slim lower branches that seem to have sprung up all over the tree base. It takes minutes to cut just one. There are at least ten more. My God. This could go on all night.

The tree is rapidly getting on my bad side. It’s not a helpful tree. It’s not cooperating.

Good trees should practically leap into their stands, nice and straight, and wait while one tightens the base. This tree doesn’t even care if my kids get fed.

I’m still sawing away, swearing under my breath. I take a rest.

“Mom, let me do it. I can do it. I’m strong.”

I look at William, my William, who at nine has become the new man in the family, and I see how big he has become. My nine-pound baby on his way to adulthood. “I don’t want you hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt.”

“You got hurt outside.”

“That’s because you dropped the tree on me.”

Mmmm. Good point. But still. Knives are different. “I’d hate for you to get cut—”

“I won’t.” He takes the knife from me. “Stand back.”