When our family puts up the tree each Christmas, I always envision a Rockwellesque family affair, complete with carols, cocoa and cookies. But what usually happens feels more like a testosterone induced Bah Humbug fest than something out of a Norman Rockwell scene.

Something in the Johnson male species induces seasonal allergic reactions to decorating. Even though I try to convince my husband and 17-year-old adult son that artificial trees do not pollinate, when it's time to deck the halls, a sudden onslaught of flu-like symptoms begin in John and Garrett-sneezing, puffy eyes and body fatigue. Apparently, I suffer from temporary insanity and nostalgic memory loss, but with my idealistic insistence, some traditions die hard. When I put our tree up this year, I arranged to have the whole family together to help.

It's the tradition that counts.

Before you get too impressed with my ability to enlist cooperation from family members with steroid hormones, let me clarify exactly what I mean by "help."

The day before our decorating extravaganza, I hauled out the tree and fifty ornament boxes from the shed. I erected the "easy-to-assemble hinged" Green River Spruce and unmashed each evergreen sprig on the 6,593 tips.  How else was I going to get the "fresh-from-the-forest appearance" that the box boasted of? Once the tree was suitably erect and plugged in, I spent three hours with a magnifying glass to find that single wretched burnt-out bulb. Only after the ribbon was strategically woven throughout the branches and I bandaged my arms from all the scratches was it time for the troops to come in and "help."

"Brittany and Melissa are coming over in a bit," I told John and Garrett. "We're going to spend some family time together decorating the tree."

I could see the excitement oozing from their pores. "Ten ornaments, guys. That's all you have to hang," I bribed.

It's the tradition that counts.