We have a new babysitter starting tonight, and she’s Jewish. Not Jewish like me, but Jewish like I suspect she actually goes to synagogue.

So I’m feeling a little self conscious about the giant Christmas tree in our living room.

In our nearly 14 years of marriage, Ray and I have often had trees, but of the tabletop variety — and fake. One year we did get a live one but I didn’t water it enough and it died almost immediately, so I don’t count it.

Last night I asked a question on Facebook: Am I supposed to decorate the back of the tree? All my Jewish friends said yes; my friends who’ve actually had Christmas trees said no. I thought that was funny, that the Jews wouldn’t dream of “cheating” in this regard, and yet so many of us have such a sliding scale approach to the traditions and tenets of Judaism. Like how my grandmother would never cook a ham in the house, but she loved to eat bacon out. Or how in my mind, a tabletop tree is okay, but a real one from a Christmas tree lot is somehow over the edge.

For so many of us, it’s really all about family traditions anyhow. And that’s certainly the case this year. Ever since Ray’s mom died almost three years ago, his father’s been bringing her stuff over to the house. First it was her sewing machine, then a silver tea set, then boxes of random things, and finally, the Christmas decorations.

That one really hit me. We’d always celebrated Christmas at Ray’s parents’ house; each year they invited the girls over (alone!) to decorate their big tree — a full-size but a fake, the kind that’s pre-lit and folds up. I think the tree’s someplace in our house, too, but we didn’t get that out. Ray did show up in the living room the other day with the Christmas decoration box, and set it down next to our boxes of Christmas and Hanukkah stuff.

The year my mother in law died, I convinced my father in law to have Christmas at his house. We brought most of the food, he decorated the tree. It was nice; as nice as it could be under the circumstances. But obviously (and understandably) not for him – later he announced he wouldn’t be hosting Christmas again.  So that Christmas box hadn’t been opened for years, had probably been sitting in the hot garage, and when I tried to get it open, the duct tape covering it had hardened.

“I can’t open the box,” I told Ray. He accused me of not trying hard enough. Of course he was right.

I was afraid of the box, afraid it would upset the girls, afraid of that giant tree. What if it looked like crap when I was done? I stood in front of it and sang a little song in my head:

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree, you kinda scare the shit outta me….

Eventually, the thing had to get decorated. Last night we lit a fire, kept the TV off for once, and Ray ran to the hardware store for lights. I was impressed that he knew to start with big ones on the bottom, putting the smaller up top. I had no idea that’s how it’s done. I got out the garlands I usually drape over the mantleplace and wrapped them around the tree; they looked pretty good.

Then Ray got out a knife and opened his family’s box of Christmas decorations. And you know what? It wasn’t as sad as I thought it would be. By bedtime (okay, a little past) we’d almost finished. (Above are the results, as of last night.)

It didn’t look perfect, like my  mother in law’s always did. The live tree tilts just a little, and there isn’t really enough room for it in our tiny space. When I asked that Facebook question about the back of the tree, someone joked that that’s where you put all the kids’ handmade ornaments. I’ll be honest, I hid some of the uglier ones back there. But most of them — including the ones Ray made as a kid — are front and center. And they look awesome.

I bet our babysitter will think so, too.