Having a child brings out the holiday spirit in the Scroogiest parents.

Last year, we never got around to getting a proper tree. Instead we decorated a wooden branch we’d purchased in Iceland with miniature baubles from Gracious Home. The cats bit the baubles and knocked them behind the couch. We salvaged what we could and re-hung them. It was a wicked recurring game that kept the cats entertained until Twelfth Night when we finally tabled the ornaments.

This year, the story is very different. We have a proper tree. A grand 7-foot affair whose pine-y smell reaches all the way to the other end of the apartment.

Selecting the right tree was a family-wide endeavor. We examined the firs, the pines, the balsams. We weighed the pros and cons of the various heights (taller = BETTER!). We priced out tree stands and assessed the various designs — plastic vs. metal. We looked at trees on every street corner and waited for the finest shipments to come in from Lapland (or from wherever they hail). And when we finally bit the bullet and bought the best tree on the block, we decided we simply had to have a pretty wreath dressed to the nines with a rich maroon ribbon. Michael dragged the tree home and I jaunted back with the wreath slung over my arm like a bracelet. August looked cute.

Then came the lights. Hundreds of them; zillions of them, because the tree needed to look fine. Ornaments we dragged out of their deep, dark boxes. We laid “snow” at the base of the tree. And two tiny presents at its foot.

And do you want to know how much notice August has taken of this magnificent tree? Well, let’s put it this way: not as much as I’d like. Really, his hands are just so much more exciting than a giant pine (or was it fir?) covered in twinkling lights. But we’re working on it. I’ll park his bouncer next to the tree for a good half hour later today.