I wasn’t going to reveal this to everybody but my husband said I had to since the blogosphere is all about honesty and sincerity and thruthiness — right? — so the plain simple fact is I only put our tree up yesterday. Yesterday. As in four days before Christmas. I know, I know. Friends were shocked and appalled. Family members kept checking in anxiously on my (non) progress. How did this happen? I’m not quite sure. It’s not that I’m anti-tree. I put my mom’s up for her. I oohed and ahhed over everybody else’s trees. I just never got around to doing my own. I didn’t do it the weekend after Thanksgiving because I was gone and I was gone the next weekend, too, and then I had the Sinus Infection From Hell and then suddenly it seemed too close to time to take it down to put it up. And I was sort of approaching it as an experiment: How would I feel if I didn’t put a tree up? As Dec. 25 got closer, I got my answer: Not good. So up it went on Monday and everybody has been properly impressed. I have had the stockings up since Dec. 1, though, so there you are. And here’s the thing: Our Christmas tree is not one of those beautifully color-coordinated and themed trees. I think those are pretty, but I don’t do it myself. Nope. Our tree is like a family scrapbook — one with green stickery things that the cats climb up. We’ve got 20-year-old kindergarten wreaths and baby Jesuses sharing branch time with vacation souvenirs and mementos of favorite things and good times. Now, that’s a Christmas tree.