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Yesterday was our annual "Picking Out the Perfect Christmas Tree" outing. The weather was gorgeous, the sun stunning, and I only heard one under-the-breath order to "shut it" (because they're not allowed to say "shut up") from one charming Willis child to another as we loaded into the Suburban.

On the way to the Christmas tree farm, I was lamenting the fact that "Table for Six: The Extraordinary Tales of an Ordinary Family" still wasn't ready for public consumption. I peppered Chris with the usual questions...

Should it be in narrative form?

If so, should it be chronological?

Does is work as a series of essays?

Will anyone want to read it?

Should I just retire my typing fingers and become a stripper instead?

And his response?

"I think that what will make this book absolutely perfect is if you write the entire thing in third person." And then he rolled his eyes and proceeded to turn up the Run-DMC Christmas carols. Because we've had this conversation approximately 3,268 times. Just this week.

"Yeah!" Sam chimed in. "Sam thinks you should always write in third person."

"Gus agrees," added my 11-year-old.

"Mary Claire thinks we should all stop for hot chocolate."

"And George thinks he should receive lots of LEGOs for Christmas."

And that is how the Third Person Trip To the Christmas Tree Farm Conversation began.

"Katrina thinks all her kids are smart asses -- just like their father," I interjected after a series of loud and unruly third person comments. "And because they are all irreverent and obnoxious, she is going to sing 'Away in a Manger' at the top of her lungs."

"Noooo!" they all cried.

"Sam thinks he will die if he has to listen to that!"

But I did it anyway.

And just for the record, no one perished.

Norman Rockwell, Here We Come

Yesterday was Christmas-Tree-Picking-Out-Day. It began in a very normal Willis/Norman Rockwell picturesque way with George flinging himself to the floor in tears because I told him that his hat from last year (which was precariously perched on his head like a beanie with his ears completely exposed to the elements) was too small. Once we got into the car, the chorus of "he's touching me" and "she's kicking my seat" and "why do we have to listen to 80's music" began. Big Daddy became increasingly annoyed (by the children and the 80's music)--Led Zeppelin was the only thing that would calm him down.

The Christmas tree farm was uber-crowded and instead of driving through the scenic display of evergreens with idyllic smiles on our faces, Chris was grumbling, "this is why I hate this place." I promptly snapped, "then let's just go to Marsh and buy our tree there. That will be memorable for the kids."

Picking out the tree was actually pretty fun and somewhat simple. Then we went to see the reindeer that smelled like a dirty guinea pig cage times one gazillion.

Mary Claire cried in the train store because I wouldn't buy her a unicorn for her fairy castle.

Chris set the tree up and hung the lights when we arrived home. After all the kids completed their arguments about which ornament belonged to whom, and I threatened to call Santa and tattle on their sorry asses multiple times during the tree decorating process, we all decided to watch "The Polar Express" together. Chris would like it noted for the record that to complete the day of Christmas memories, I promptly fell asleep after the snappy "Hot Chocolate" number and snored loudly throughout the remainder of the movie.

We're ALL ABOUT making memories at the Willis house.