“Hmm. No. But maybe I’ll have to write in to suggest it.”
“I’ll have the wine. Less sugar.”
“Smart man, saving your sugar calories for our gingerbread cookies. Belle and I made them yesterday.”
“I did the cutouts,” Belle says.
“Nice,” he tells her, admiring the misshapen gingerbread man before taking a large bite out of its head, decapitating the poor guy.
“What do you think, Daddy?” She asks.
“Delicious,” he proclaims. He takes a sip from his Christmas mug. “The mulled wine is good too. Though I’m surprised it’s not eggnog.”
“We can’t start eggnog season too early,” I explain. “We have to progress in a particular order. It starts with mulled wine, then leads into hot buttered rum, and only then are you allowed to break out the eggnog, the final few days until Christmas.”
He grunts, but I notice his headless gingerbread man is almost gone and his mulled wine cup is empty. Operation Christmas Tree Decorating is going full steam ahead.
Ronan wanders over to the tree, which we put in a stand earlier. He walks around it with an expression that’s somewhere between a frown and a grimace.
“Stop judging it.”
“You had me chop down the ugliest, scrawniest tree on the farm.”
“Shh,” I say. “It can hear you. If you anger the tree, it will actively repel the ornaments. It’s a fact.”
“I love our tree,” Belle defends. “It’s cute.”
“See, it’s cute,” I repeat.
“It reminds me of that one in the movie,” Belle adds.
“See, it reminds her of a movie Christmas tree,” I say with a smug smile.
“Which movie, Belle?” Ronan asks.
“The one we watched the other night. With Charlie Brown. It reminds me of his tree.”
Ronan laughs and shoots me an “I told you so” look.
“No one else would have chosen it. It needed a home,” I defend. It’s really notthatbad. We already turned it so you can’t see the giant bald patch in the back. “Besides, I like a challenge.”
“We can put extra tinsel there,” Belle says, pointing to the branchless portion. “It’s a great tree, Daddy.”
“You’re right, pumpkin,” he agrees.
My knees weaken a little at hearing the term of endearment for Belle. And, okay, using pumpkin at Christmastime is not seasonally appropriate, but I forgive him for the lapse in holiday etiquette because it’s so darn cute and also because he’s finally admitted that our Christmas tree is great.
I take a sip of the mulled wine to hold back my full-fledged sappy grin.
I can’t help it. He looks so big. And manly. And befuddled. Trying to untangle my Christmas lights with a look of intense concentration.
“I love these ornaments,” Belle says. She holds up a ballerina in a tutu.
I smile. “Remember when I told you my parents bought me one new ornament every Christmas? I got that one when I was about your age.”
“Just like our new tradition, isn’t it, Daddy?” she says.
“It is,” he replies, almost proudly.
