Christmas. A time for giving, for bringing people together,
for the simple pleasures, right?
No. It turns out. Actually fucking massive no.
I feel like I’m losing my festive mind.
On a daily basis there’s another thing to remember for the
kids.
As I was driving home from a meeting the other day I
suddenly recalled they were both meant to be dressed as elves the following
morning. I handbreak turned into the nearest gigantic Tesco, and purchased two
pairs of Elf pyjamas. Double win. They can seamlessly wear them from day into
night.
I was feeling pretty chuffed with myself until I got home to
a crestfallen daughter who told me that I’d missed both her ballet and violin
performances. I’D ALREADY BEEN TO THE RECEPTION CLASS NATIVITY THAT MORNING,
HOW CAN THAT BE??
And then there are the presents. I’ve asked the kids what
they want for Christmas, and the list is extensive.
Mainly from Father Christmas.
I’m starting to resent him, the big jolly gift-giving
buffoon. He’s going to get all the credit, while the practical presents they’ll
receive from us will be, almost definitely, met with shrugs of ‘I never said I
wanted that, what does it DO anyway?’ (It’s a microscope. It’s fun AND
educational. Like it any better now? No, thought not.)
I’m on first name terms with the delivery guy from Amazon
who knocks daily to deliver another panic present I’ve bought at 1am when I
suddenly remember another relative we’re due to see that I’ve forgotten to buy
something for.
Thing is, by the time Christmas actually arrives, you’re kind
of over it already.
See, low level excitement for children starts a good six
weeks before the big day AT LEAST. No-one can remain enthusiastic about
anything for that length of time.
It starts the first time you hear Jingle Bells in Sainsbury’s.
There’s the squeal of anticipation from the children, and a heart sinking feeling from
the parents as it’s only fucking November.
Then December 1st comes along and with it, the
chocolate advert calendars. Who isn’t going to lose their shit if they’re
stuffing their face with chocolate on a daily basis before they’ve even got out
of their pyjamas? Ho ho fucking ho.
I’ve bought my Christmas outfit, a silver sequinned
mini-dress from a brand waaaaaaaaay too young for me off e-bay. It arrived. I
squeezed into it. It turns out sequins are one of the more unforgiving fabrics
and I look like an adult bauble.
So. Hang in there. Get that wine mulling. Pour yourself into
your snazziest, sparkliest outfit, and try and remember that it’s not about the
gifts. It’s not even about family.
It’s about two weeks of not having to shout -brush your
teeth, put your uniform on, find your shoes, get your book bag, where are your
shoes? Do you want ham or Marmite? What do you mean you’re vegetarian now? Where
are your shoes? CAN WE ALL JUST LEAVE THE HOUSE NOW??
So. Merry Christmas. And breathe…
