Christmas

We were talking about Christmas at work last week, mainly about when to put decorations up and I confessed that I don’t really like decorations; I find them irritating and a little claustrophobic by the end of the Christmas season so I prefer to put them up as late as possible. (They went up on the 1^st this year, I will be mad by the 20^th.) Then we talked about cards and I said how I feel that they’re just clutter and that nobody ever actually writes them without a sense of obligation or any sincerity so I’d rather not have them and I have stopped sending them. Then we talked about food and I said I much prefer choosing my own Christmas dinner than having to go along with the old turkey and trimmings dinner. Then we talked about the whole family obligation thing and I said how, a few years ago, I decided to do what we wanted to do as a family and not play the Christmas merry-go-round anymore. Then my manager quietly said; “You don’t really like Christmas, do you?” And I was genuinely taken aback.

I love Christmas. There, I said it. I just don’t like the commercialism, the overwhelming sense of obligation and the pressure. I love the excitement I can vicariously get from my kids. I love the fact that we lie, on the grounds of religion, to our children and never seem to see the hypocrisy. I love the leverage that lie gives, especially with susceptible toddlers whose behaviour needs leverage. I love the smells of Christmas and own half a tonne of Christmas tree scented candles, which I never burn because then they stop smelling like trees.  I love the hope that I see in my daughter’s eyes when she asks me if He’s real.

I remember the year I found out He’s not real, I think I was 6, I’d come downstairs to get a drink and found my brother, who was only 11 at the time, surrounded by little packages and writing a card that said; “Love Santa”. I don’t remember feeling let down by it at all. It was still exciting to wake up to parcels, no matter who had put them there. I didn’t feel I’d been lied to. Now, my daughter has reached 9 and is still a believer and I am filled with a sense that the longer this lie goes on the worse it’s going to be for her and therefore, me. The temptation to reveal all is very strong but I think I’m a good enough Mum to know not to do it in December. The potential for devastation here is great, how could I have been stupid enough to play along with the nonsense-man in the first place? How cynical will my daughter become the minute she finds out about Him, not existing, not to mention the tooth fairy and the laundry fairy (ok, I think she’s already clocked that one and she never fully appreciated a fresh pile of laundered clothes at the end of her bed).

 Maybe that’s when I started picking holes in Christmas, that night when I realised He’s not real. Or maybe, like Page, I didn’t have strong traditions as a kid, not strong enough to help me see past the cynicism anyway. We were always the recipients, gratefully so, of food parcels from local charities, sometimes gifts but mostly food, it never ceased to amaze me that we would receive tins of grapefruit, these would stay in the cupboard for months, a difficult thing to eat when you’re hungry. The most delightful thing in the boxes would be a Fray Bentos pie or the occasional, magical, box of chocolates.

 My Dad’s favourite tradition was to stay up all Christmas Eve and be incoherent by the time we got up. We always got gifts, I’m not entirely sure how many or what my Dad provided, my wonderful Grandparents did a lot, as did the rest of our family and friends. By the time I was 13 Dad’s idea of a Christmas gift was a video of Fantasia, because he liked it, folded into a sheet of newspaper sans Selotape, there was nothing after that. At least as we all got older he got better at cooking, he did a mean, if slightly strange, roast potato, under the grill and covered in Oxo.

I am a naturally cynical person and it is easy to direct it at Christmas, especially Christmas in November. The reason I don’t want to hear about Christmas in November is because the less of it there is the more special it feels, it’s not because I hate Christmas. There is so much I love about this crazy pseudo-religious holiday, it’s just not necessarily what you love. I love wrapping presents, especially my kids ones, and feeling the excitement in the paper. I love cooking, making gingerbread, homemade gravalax and rye bread, cooking a roast is like yoga for me, blissful and rewarding despite the challenge. I love midnight mass, although it’s been years since I’ve attended. I love everybody’s lights, December always seems a little warmer for them. I love the smells, the colours, the music. For every bit of Christmas I don’t like there’s something else that I adore.

This year will be my third Christmas alone, I have intentionally chosen to be alone because I wanted my kids to have the best time they could have in the strange circumstances we are in. It makes sense for them to be with their grandparents and their Dad and enjoy their traditions. I will be celebrating Christmas with my kids on the 23^rd, we’re even doing Christmas Eve on the 22^nd, and they have chosen the food they want to eat, what they want to do, they have some say in it all and, I hope, will enjoy it immensely and then be whisked away to enjoy a more traditional Christmas with a much greater potential for snow and turkey. I have had many kind invitations to join other people’s days, meals, drinks, etc but I am looking forward to eating when and what I like, watching what I like, snuggling with my dog and drinking a little earlier than is usually acceptable. No expectations, no demands, no pressure. I’ll miss my kids like crazy but not because it’s Christmas, just because I do the minute I say goodbye to them. The best thing is, I know they’ll be happy, having fun, being spoilt rotten and being immersed in a proper traditional Christmas.