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hassles.
    Until this year.
    We searched for the perfect tree with the perfect price tag. Sticker shock isn’t just for automobiles, we learned. Our budget rose as we shopped.
    â€œThat one,” we finally said.
    I worried needlessly about fitting the nine-foot tree in our car. The waist-high carton slid easily into our midsized Malibu.
    â€œHow many limbs are there?” I wondered.
    â€œWe’ll see,” my husband said.
    By the time we put sections A through E together, the tree was much bigger than it had looked in the store. “We have to return it for a smaller one,” I said. “But how will we ever get it back into the box?”
    My husband said not to decide until each of the branches was pulled apart. Raising my voice to frenzy level, I explained what any sane person could plainly see—it was too big for the room.
    â€œLet’s see,” he said. An hour later, when every branch fanned out and each needle was in place, he advised me to sleep on the decision. I did, awaking hourly in a panic.
    In the morning, I poked my head into the living room and repeated that the tree was too oversized for our house. Hubby announced his intention to get on the ladder and start looping ribbons around the tree. I told him there wouldn’t be enough. He repeated his “let’s see” mantra and unrolled the spools of red and gold trim, suggesting I find the angel for the top. I wailed that the angel was too small to be nine-feet skyward.
    â€œLet’s see,” he said. Then he left for work, leaving me alone with a tree that had taken over the whole room and was about to crowd me out of the house.
    That night, I said we should remove the garlands and get the tree back to the store. My husband decided to put ornaments on some of the top boughs—to keep the angel company.
    â€œWe’ll need binoculars to see them up there,” I said. He thought we should wait and see.
    Even though it would be added work to remove them before we returned the tree, when he hurried to work the next day, I hung a few things on lower limbs. Just to prove how silly they would look. Surely my husband would come to his senses, disassemble the mighty oak, and return it to the store.
    I hung angels a neighbor had given me and a snowman from a friend alongside framed photos of our grandchildren. When it was dark outside, I plugged in the lights and stepped back to look at the gargantuan evergreen.
    The bright bulbs made mirrored ornaments from my father twinkle and bells from my mother glimmer. They glowed through brightly colored glass decorations created by my children. As memories of Christmases past enveloped the room, I phoned my husband.
    â€œIt’s safe to come home,” I said. “The tree’s staying. In fact, I might just leave it up all year long.”

Oy, Come All Ye Faithful
    By Dorri Olds
    â€œ H ow would you feel about Dad and I sleeping over Christmas Eve and we all go out for breakfast Christmas Day?” A trap, a snare. In Mom’s world, my feelings have nothing to do with anything. Especially when she wants something, which is all the time.
    See, I’m a dedicated homebody. I live in a one-bedroom apartment that, okay, I admit—I wouldn’t even have if they hadn’t spent a fortune putting me through college. But them sleeping over? Give up my firm queen mattress, down pillows, and Calvin Klein silky-soft leopard-print sheets?
    If I say no it’ll trigger, “This—to your own mother? After all we’ve . . .” The guilt will eat at me until next Christmas.
    Two options: sleep in the other room on the floor on an air mattress (rather have weasels rip my flesh), or sleep on the couch, which is right next to the bed (nightmares of being tied to her by an umbilical cord). It’s hard enough to create boundaries without us sleeping like sardines.
    â€œOkay, Mom. Sure.”
    We’re devout atheist Jews. Dad taught me