I’m stalling on the Christmas tree this year. When we moved house and decided to cram all the decorations behind boxes and suitcases in the basement, Christmas seemed so far away. And now, the thought of rummaging through it all feels like such an effort. Our rental apartment is carpeted, so I foresee a lot of vacuuming. I totally understand why people opt for a fake tree. The holidays can be overwhelming enough, why add a million little needles to the list. But just as I contemplated a visit to Canadian Tire, (Jason was aghast at the merest suggestion of a fake one) I remembered why the tree is so important to me. For years, my Mum made every effort to make sure Christmas was splendid. She’d hoist a tree up the stairs, untangle lights, unwrap and hang a hundred baubles, and shop for and wrap all the presents under the tree. I don’t know that she was always in a festive mood, but she definitely made us, and our home, feel warm and sparkly and adored. This year, we’re fleeing the city on Christmas day, but I do still want the children to wake up on Christmas morning to the sight of a glorious tree, festooned with flashing lights and macaroni garlands. It may all be an effort, but it’s a worthy one.