We went to the Christmas tree lot near our house, and Whitney announced with all the sweetness of a fifteen year old daughter, "Daddy, it's your turn to pick the tree this year."
"Okay," I said, "That sounds good to me," so then I inspected all the different trees and carefully weighed my options. I decided to bypass the grand fir. They have that rich, Christmas tree smell, but they tend to dry out faster. The nordman fir tends to stay green longer, but the girls don't like the needles because they look "weird."
While I was still searching for the perfect tree, Whitney revised her announcement and said, "Uh dad, I like this one."
"But I thought you said it was my turn to pick the tree," I said.
"But I like this one," she said. Apparently that settled the issue. Who's tree do you think we bought? I think everyone knows the answer: Whitney's tree is now standing in our living room, the lights shining softly in all different colors. I love that tree and I love this memory of my daughters.
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