Christmas Trees: The Hidden Trauma

For the first time since the boys were born, we decided to get a fresh cut tree this year instead of hauling out the old artificial pre-lit K-mart special. (Which we still have, despite its rather tattered look and the fact that it fell on Steph's car causing us to submit a ridiculous insurance claim.) In fact, we decided to go cut our own. I figured the boys would be thrilled. Not so much Eddie.
"I don't want to cut down a tree," he said, his voice filled with distress. "Trees help us breathe!" Ahh, my budding environmentalist. As much as I want to nurture and support those impulses, Mommy wants a happy family memory and the smell of fresh cut Christmas tree this year, dammit! So I explained that we would cut a tree from a farm where they were grown for the express purpose of being cut down and that the farmer would replant in the place of the one we slaughter, etc. and he decided it would be OK.

So we got the tree, which was indeed fun. I got lights -- we didn't have any because -- Hello! -- our artificial tree didn't need any. Anyway, one light string didn't work and we were looking for this little tester gadget that I loaned out a couple of years ago and suddenly, Chas has come in, looking forlorn and explaining that he was trying to find the plug for the lights that were already on the tree. Steph sensed what had happened far sooner than I and immediately ran to the living room. Yes, the tree was down. Water was everywhere -- because fresh cut trees need water, which frankly is another strike against them. We told him he wasn't in trouble, it was an accident etc. etc. as we mopped up and righted the tree. A few minutes later, he sat solemnly and muttered, "I feel terrible." Yes, he was feeling guilty about having knocked down the tree. We reassured him AGAIN that he wasn't in trouble and hadn't done anything wrong because we should have had the tree more stable than it was etc. I'm not sure he was buying it.