This weekend we finally opened our doors to the season surrounding us.

(We’re a little slow like that sometimes.)

We dug out the fake tree.

Again.

This year the result of our Fake Tree vs. Real Tree debate has nothing to do with travel plans.

Instead, it has lots more to do with the logic presented by a seven year old.

London somehow fell on the Fake Tree side of the argument.  And she presented three very reasonable arguments for her cause.  She articulately stated . . .

1.  We already own a fake tree.  It’s in the storage shed.  It’s already free.

2.  You have to water a real tree every day and we would forget and it would not last as long.

3.  Even if you cut a free tree down from our woods, then you are really killing nature and that tree no longer has a chance to live.

(These are honestly the reasons she outlined for me.)

I really couldn’t argue with her logic.

I didn’t even try.

So the fake tree is up.

The ornaments were dragged out of hiding.

Unfortunately, it is not a euphemism when I say dragged, as I allowed several of my ambitious small children to carry in the ornaments box without supervision.

We ended up with a bit of carnage on our hands when the box’s lid was removed.

Those are the heads of Curious George and a Campbell’s Soup kid, respectively.

No matter, Kevin whipped out the crazy glue and now the decapitated monkey and rosy-cheeked child are as good as new.  (If you don’t look closely.)

We hung up the stockings – it’s a pretty crowded mantle, I’ll tell you that.

Riley made some incredible from-scratch-with-icing brownies.

(I think she timed her brownie making with the Fake Tree Assembling on purpose.)

Fox managed to lick/push/suck all the the icing off at least two brownies before he was discovered.

Guilty and filthy.

We cleaned him up and Kevin hoisted him in the air for the annual Tossing of the Bear.

This was the year Fox was called up to the show.

It took him maybe six attempts,

but one final toss landed Old White Bear beside the partner to the injured Campbell’s Soup kid.

Mosely spent the next half hour trying to figure out how old she would be before it would finally be her turn to throw the bear again.

(She’ll be 10 before her opportunity rolls around.)

“Ugh,” she shoved her hands on her hips as she sighed, “That will take years before I turn ten!”

It sure will, Mo-Town.

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