No. After eleven years of being a good corporate wife and (part-time) interior designer, all I want are my kids, my friends, and my business to thrive.

The friends are easy, the work is challenging, and taking in Jessica’s mulish expression, I think at least one of the kids is impossible.

“Because Melinda’s not your mother,” I answer. “She’s your daddy’s girlfriend.”

“So?”

Thank God I had William first, because if Jessica had been the firstborn, there would have been no other children. “So Melinda isn’t responsible for you. I am. And it’s my job to make sure you grow up healthy, safe, and polite.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re ready to try to stand the tree again. William and I are holding the tree and trying to shake it all the way down to the bottom of the stand, but we can’t get it down no matter how hard we try.

I stand back to see what it looks like, while William is buried in the tree, holding it steady. “Maybe it’s okay like this,” he mumbles around a mouthful of pine.

I’m thinking he’s right. It looks straight. Enough.

“Keep holding the tree, and I’ll tighten the screws the rest of the way.” I’ve located a second pair of pliers, and with pliers in hand I wiggle on my stomach beneath the tree, heading in face-first, as if I’m auditioning for the staged version of Desert Storm. Jessica’s crawling in from the other side with her pliers, and together we bang and clank on the screws while William shouts encouragements.

“You’ve got it,” he says. “Looks great. I think it’s going to work.”

“Mom, I’ve got this side,” Jessica says.

And finally, sappy and red faced, I crawl back out. The tree looks okay.

“Are we going to decorate now?” Jess asks, putting the pliers to bookends and drawer knobs and anything that protrudes.

“You guys need dinner.”

“No, we don’t.” William already has the strings of lights coming out of the boxes.

I rub the back of my neck and try not to see how William is getting the light strings in knots. “You do. You’ll be starving and won’t sleep.”

Jessica kneels to clamp a light with the pliers. “Jess,” I warn.

She looks up at me, all wide-eyed innocence. “What?”

“Those bulbs are glass.”

“Uh-huh.”

“They’ll break.” And snap. She shatters one. Bright bits of red glass shards in the carpet.

Jess drops the pliers. “It broke.”

William shakes his head. “You did that deliberately.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t!”

“Guys.” I stand between them, a restraining hand on each. “Come on. We’ve got lots to do.” I send Jessica for the vacuum, William for the phone to call Domino’s, and I pop two Advil. This is going to be a really long night.