The tree is up.  It is decorated.  It is freaking huge.  The Christmas tree is yet another example where our parents got it right and we get it so wrong.  Parents.  Bought fake tree.  Decorated.  Shoved into attic after festivities, only to be resurrected the year after.  Only stress, untangling fairy lights and trying to figure out which bulb was the problem.  Us.  Every year.  The search for the real tree.  Getting it home.  Getting it into the house.  Keeping it upright and not blinding any children in the process.  Untangling the fairy lights.  Decorating it.  Thinking 'why oh why is the decorating experience' not like the one in the movies?  Stress levels.  Through the roof!  Yet we still do it the year after.  And the one after that and before anyone says 'yeah but there's nothing like the smell of a real tree', real trees haven't smelt since we started buying the bushy ones because the spiky ones shed so dreadfully.  By the way.  I have a real tree.  Getting through the whole shebang?  Either the husband and I were divorcing or the kids were divorcing us!