After tromping around the vast outdoors at the tree farm or hunting through the towering heights of Christmas trees at the local tree stand, you finally find THE PERFECT TREE! After endless hours of deliberation, you both finally -- miraculously -- agree that not only is it perfectly conical and aromatic, it is also "just the right size" (and price) and there is great rejoicing.
Then somehow on the 10-minute trip home THE PERFECT TREE overdoses on vitamins, or maybe you pass by a nuclear power plant that accidentally surges and by the time you bring it home, THE PERFECT TREE barely fits through the front door. You end up having to hack off, like, ten or twelve feet of that so-called perfect tree just to clear the ceiling. It's like on the National Lampoon's Christmas movie: the Clark Griswold Syndrome.
Well, Jason and I had the opposite problem.
Our house has the lowest clearance of any house I've ever been in. Jason practically has to duck his head to get under the beam in the living room. It's like the previous owners were Bagginses. Bagginsses. Baggins'es's. Bagginsii. Whatever... The point is, we knew we wanted a small tree. I just wasn't thinking it would be QUITE this small.
I introduce to you: our Christmas shrub.
I know that Jesse's had a growing spurt, but I assure you that when he can reach the top of the Christmas tree, you know you have a small tree.
Jesse put up the ornament he made at school (his first Christmas ornament).
Then he puts up Baba's first ornament (from Jason's childhood) on top of it.