Oooh, Christmas Tree!

December 2011

Christmas trees are for the happy, for the safe and secure, for those tight knit, hot-chocolate-drinking, marshmallow-roasting families to sit around in their adorable flannel pajamas. They’re NOT for the hurting, the sad, the bitter, and the lonely... or so I thought.

There were years before and after my separation and divorce where buying a tree seemed physically and emotionally arduous to me, more depressing than uplifting. The only reason I carried out the obligation was because I had two children who depended on me to make the season bright, to uphold the old and create the new traditions.

When my marriage first started to sour, the last thing I wanted was to celebrate Christmas, and I certainly wasn’t going to get a tree. My dear, sweet, super-Jewish friend, Shari, never had a tree growing up, but those Hallmark Channel Christmas Movie visions danced in her head and she wanted in. Shari begged me to let her come to the tree lot with us. At first I agreed, only to later confide in her that I wasn’t much in the mood for the season and we were going to skip out on a tree that year. The next night there was a knock at my door. I looked through the peep hole and saw only green. When I opened the door, there was the most perfect tree just standing there. Behind it was the most perfect friend, holding it up. I’ll never forget what Shari did for me that year, and how she knew that even if I didn’t want a tree, I needed a tree.

December 2011 with my beautiful mother

My mother said no one should ever shop for a Christmas tree alone. I’ve done it. She’s right. She made it a priority to always meet me at the lot, even surprising me one year when I’d completely had it! I turned around and there she was... with a smile, open arms, and a piece of crumpled Kleenex from her pocket to dry my tears.




 In the years since she’s been gone, my aunt and my dad have been there to help us find the straightest, plumpest, fullest, fattest Douglas fir in town. 

December 2014 with my Dad

December 2013 with my Aunt Shirley

One thing that will never change is that once the tree is securely tied to the top of the car, I play Kenny Loggins’ “Celebrate Me Home,” and drive slowly down the street. It’s my favorite 12-minute ride of the year. I’ll bet that whoever sees us thinks we’re on our way to a perfect night, and they’re right. It’s OUR perfect!

Back when I was taller than my kids, the biggest pain was trying to figure out how to get the damn tree off the car and into the house. One year we flagged down an alarm company patrol guy.   Other years, my brother, my prom date, and a buff neighbor rode to the rescue.  

December 2008 with my brother, Jeffrey

Here’s a piece of advice for the single and anyone else who’s harried, frazzled, and stressed -- ask for help and accept help when it’s offered! Tis NOT the season to kill yourself trying to do it all! Now that my 15-year old son tips the scales at 180 and hovers near the 6-foot mark, he does the honors.



I’m glad I didn’t bah-humbug it, and thankful that my friends and family wouldn’t let me. Christmas trees aren’t just for the happy. They’re for the hopeful, for the grateful, for the loving, and the loved… and they can be a shining light when all else seems kind of dismal and dark.

Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,
Such pleasure do you bring me!

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worth a thousand words

Long before malls were dotted with the Picture People, before families dressed in jeans and white button-down shirts and said “cheese” on the beach, before Tiny Prints, there was the Sharell Family Christmas card.

It all started when I was four. My mom and I were twins, dressed like real-life cameo brooches. Over the years, my brothers donned Mickey Mouse sweaters, and we paid homage to movies like Urban Cowboy, and my all-time favorite, The Breakfast Club. That’s me above, striking Molly Ringwald’s pose from the movie’s poster. Epic!

It was no easy feat. My mother left no rack unturned as she scoured department stores for the perfect outfits. Armed with bottles of hairspray, brushes, makeup, and wardrobe changes, we’d head to Hollywood for our photo shoots. These were arduous sessions that lasted for hours with my mother shouting “big eyes, BIG EYES” so we wouldn’t squint.

It didn’t stop there. Next came the proofs, the graphic design, and finding the perfect saying for inside the card. My mother found it impersonal not to include a note, so she’d be up till all hours writing. Envelopes were addressed by hand and given the right stamp -- the Madonna and Child for our Catholic friends, and a holiday stamp for all others. Finally, they’d be on their way!

Did I want to deal with this massive aggravation, ridiculous stress, the meticulous detail, the expense, and added work when I had a family of my own? HELL YES!!!

My family’s card said we were happy. It showed how much we’d grown, how cute my youngest brother had gotten, and how big we could make our hair! But MY card would pull double duty. It would say Happy Holidays AND “We’re Married,” “There’s a Bun in the Oven,” and “Baby Makes Four!” 

There would be only one card, though, with both my children and their parents. By the time Christmas rolled around the following year, I had already been separated for two months. Though I was in no mood for Christmas, I sent a card with pictures of the kids and signed it from both my soon-to-be ex and me. That bought me time -- time to figure out what was going on in my marriage, time to avoid having anyone speculate or ask. My inner circle was privy to what was going on and that was enough.

The following year, I sent a card with a picture of my kids, but I only signed their names and mine. Tricky, right? That was my subtle way of saying it's over. Only those who paid attention to detail would get it.

Then one year I decided that's it! I was ready to let my world know, loud and clear, that we were a party of three. Full disclosure -- my friend happened to have taken a killer shot of the kids and me at a party! Nonetheless, it was a brave move that said so many things -- it said he’s literally no longer in the picture. It said we had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, that we’re still happy, and that we’re moving on. Did tongues start wagging? You bet your ass, but that happens when split happens, regardless!

These days I Nancy Reagan it and “just say no.” No to the hassle, no to the photo shoots, the design, the special stamps, the post office. It’s freeing, really -- the pressure of creating a card worthy of my family’s legacy is gone. I have too much on my plate right now to worry about what this year’s Christmas card will really be saying, so I’m done. Now, if we happen to take an off-the-charts, super-cute picture… well, that’s another story!

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we're those people

Thanks a lot, divorce! You’ve thrown a crimp into one of my most time honored traditions! When it came to Thanksgiving, my ex-husband and I had always alternated years with each other’s families. It worked so well when we were married that we kept it going after we separated. But just when it appeared that I’d orchestrated a seamless transition, my mother announced that she wasn’t cooking dinner on the years that I didn’t have the kids.

There would be no over the river and through the woods. There would be no brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends gathered round the long dining room table. The over-sized ceramic platter with the turkey on it would stay buried in the back of the cabinet for yet another year because we were now going to be one of those families, the kind that go to a restaurant for Thanksgiving -- the kind I always felt sorry for because they didn’t get to have a home-cooked meal, because they didn’t get to break a loaf of white bread into little pieces for stuffing while watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in their pajamas, because the crevices of their homes wouldn’t smell of turkey and the myriad of trimmings, because they couldn’t wear slippers at the dinner table and linger over dessert and watch TV in the family room and have leftovers.

It was weird not to wake up early and start cooking, so I went for a run… my own personal turkey trot. I ran past houses where there were lots of cars parked in driveways, and I convinced myself that they were all having the Rockwell Thanksgiving that I was being deprived of.

That evening, I reluctantly slipped on a fancy dress and heels, and climbed into the backseat of my dad’s car. Even though I was in my 30‘s, I felt like I was 15. I sat in the middle, scooted up to the edge, and leaned my elbows on the front seats so I wouldn’t miss anything. But I was missing something -- my kids and my parents’ bustling house. It’s funny though, once we got to the restaurant and the waiter popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, I started to warm to the idea of being served, of not having to make sure the turkey, gravy, and 42 side dishes were ready at the same time and still piping hot, of not having to get up from the table 20 times to run to the kitchen for something someone wanted, of not eating to the brink of explosion, and of not having to wash a single plate!

It wasn’t what we wanted, but it’s what we made work. And now, it’s a tradition. Every other year, we’re those people -- those people who order from a menu, and you know what… I’m thankful for that! I’m thankful for the people still gathered at that table. I’m thankful that my ex and I hatched a plan that works for our kids. I’m thankful for the memories of my childhood Thanksgivings, and I’m thankful that every other year I don’t have to wash dishes... and that every other year, I do!

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