You ever have one of those days? You know the ones. Nothing goes right. In fact, everything goes so wrong that, in hindsight, it’s almost comical. Of course, in the middle of it, it’s anything but funny—but if you don’t find some humor, you’re left with stress eating, over-drinking, online shopping, or seriously considering moving to a remote cabin.
Lately, my teenager has been emotional about everything. Every single thing. Christmas movies. Bad jokes. Commercials. Me breathing the wrong way. Even not having the exact shade of food coloring for her annual Thanksgiving turkey cake. On Turkey Day, I hid in the pantry and shoved mini marshmallows in my mouth just to avoid saying the wrong thing. Survival mode, people.
Tonight, though… tonight was something else entirely. The day started off normally. She worked. I tidied the house so we could enjoy a nice dinner and then go pick out a Christmas tree. Easy, right? Nope. Her skin was breaking out—enough said. A tube of concealer later, we made it to the restaurant, a beautiful Italian spot with ambiance to die for. I even managed to enjoy my frosty Diet Coke and crispy bread. That is, until I casually mentioned something I had no idea would spark a full-blown argument between my daughter and her boyfriend.
I tried to mediate, I really did. But every word I said only made it worse. Tears formed in their eyes, and I gave up on subtlety. I motioned for a glass of wine. At first, a sip, of course. Classy, right? But it quickly turned into gulping like it was summer and the cabernet was ice water. Meanwhile, my boyfriend and son stayed quiet, either wisely staying out of it or realizing I was trying to drink my way through disaster. The waitress didn’t offer a refill, probably just praying we’d leave. My boyfriend—henceforth known as Saint Jon—devoured his chicken parm at record speed. Clearly, stuffing your face is a time-honored method of avoiding confrontation. Somehow, after the credit card panic (I looked 27 times for it), we paid the bill, boxed leftovers, and headed out to the tree lot.
It was cold—40 degrees—but nothing could stop us. That was, until she saw it. A seven-foot tree, gorgeous, but $195, and I wasn’t paying that. Add in three unruly dogs, and this tree had to sit on a table to survive the season. She froze in the lot, took a deep breath, and then… tears. “It’s a Charlie Brown tree!” she shrieked, and her jacketless boyfriend rushed to console her. Saint Jon carried the tree to the car, and we finally got it home. The kids came in through the front, we through the back. The tree was set up—mostly straight—and for a moment, I thought the worst had passed.
And it had… until my son handed me my Christmas present. A pair of cushy slippers that had just arrived via Amazon. Until I realized the dog had gotten into the box and chewed them up. It was okay. It was just slippers. Until she walked past the tree again. Cue more tears. Dog barking, chaos all around. And then, the words I wasn’t expecting: “My dad would have never bought a Charlie Brown tree.”
The room went silent. Everything slowed. This wasn’t teenage drama. This wasn’t selfishness. This was grief. Three years ago, her dad—who always made everything perfect—died, right in front of her. And no matter how many ornaments I hang, how many presents I buy, nothing fills that void. The only thing that helped, for a moment, was letting her hang her dad’s ornament on the tree. A small acknowledgment, a tiny permission to feel, to remember, to grieve.
Grief comes in many forms. Mine comes out talking. Hers comes out as irritability. We all process it differently, in ways that may not make sense to anyone else. That tree wasn’t the problem—it was a trigger. And that’s okay. What matters is that she felt seen. That she wasn’t told she was wrong for feeling sad.
PS: The tree is trimmed now. She’s not thrilled, but she’s not crying. I’d call that a win in a life of big loss. Sometimes, it’s enough just to stack up enough small wins before the grief eases. And for tonight, that’s more than enough.
