It is a family tradition that is practically written in stone. Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, we go pick out a Christmas tree at a local family farm. It is something my parents started twenty-one years ago, and we have adopted and continued year after year. There is something about the tradition that makes walking the same pathways year after year even more special.
The very first year we brought Logan to tag our Christmas tree, he wasn't even a month old. He is my first baby, and I waffled between sitting in the car with him in the chilly air, or bundling him up and facing the cold together. My desire and eagerness to start our many firsts as a family, along with a little reassuring from the husband, and out we went to find our first, most perfect Christmas tree, for our first, most perfect baby.
The past couple of years have been unseasonably warm and very unlike New England. This year, there was a chill in the air, so we bundled up our now three year old. He insisted on adding his new hat, and he was ready, doing his running walking that he does when he is trying to use his walking feet but is really excited.
While we waited inside to get our official tree tag, Logan investigated the giant pine cones they on sale. He wanted one, but I figured that we would easily find some for free in our neighborhood (which we did that day).
Once we got to the actual fields he was off and running!
Finally, he stopped running, and turned to my husband and I and exclaimed, "Mama! Dada! I found it! The perfect tree!"