Nearly there now. In a few days, you’ll be able to ask people how they got over Christmas: like Christmas was a version of Ultimate Hell Week where the contestants push their digestional fortitude to the limit while fighting each other for the last bit of sellotape.
But this sentiment may be lost on you: mainly because you may never get to read it. Oh yes, there’s the parallel universe version of Christmas Eve when we’re all chillaxed out of our minds, eating mince pies with the feet up because absolutely everything has been done. But because no one ever has achieved this platonic ideal, you’re more likely to be in the car, combing several counties for red cabbage or wondering how the hell you forgot that you have three children, not two.
You may be feeling a bit of stress and a lot of guilt for having once again failed to produce that idyllic Christmas: one that you’ve never experienced and, if you had a moment to think about it, doesn’t exist.
You can insert your own wise maxim here because I don’t have one for you.
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Herself happily admits to being a bit of a Christmas Pol Pot, with the five metric tonnes of decorations tidied away in their boxes in the attic, ready to be deployed come December
We’ll be exactly the same. It’s hard to predict what our crisis will be, though at the time of writing I still haven’t put together the bicycle that’s hidden in the shed. And because Herself has already told me to do it three times, there’s a good chance I’ll be out there tonight, in the dark, using my phone to search for the missing handlebars.
And we’re not disorganised. Anything but. Herself happily admits to being a bit of a Christmas Pol Pot, with the five metric tonnes of decorations tidied away in their boxes in the attic, ready to be deployed come December. Everything has to be just so. I had to get the ladder out twice to fix my first attempt at the exterior lights. Apparently, the mise en scene lacked drama.
The odd thing about all this preparation is that we don’t do it for ourselves. We do it to please other people, who in turn might be stressing themselves out to please us. Or at least, wouldn’t be that bothered if things aren’t as perfect as you want them to be. They might not even notice.
All the kids are fans of Christmas, yet their expectations are not particularly complex: a large portion of their enjoyment comes from seeing how much Daughter Number Four loves it; which will continue now with Granddaughter Number One.
Another overheard exchange: ‘I know what girls do to relax after work. They take off their bras.’
For Daughter Number Four, it’s been a mini-Christmas every day since the arrival of the Elf on the Shelf, aka Kate McNugget. Every morning she searches for Kate, sometimes amazed by what perch she has taken up, and sometimes baffled that the elf hasn’t changed position at all. Sleepily, I’ll explain that the elf probably liked it there so much she decided to stay for another day.
To my cynical old eye, this elf looks like a piece of mass-produced plastic. But not to Daughter Number Four, or her friends. For them, elves are as vivid in their minds as parents or siblings. The belief is infectious. On playdates, they discuss in detail what antics their respective Elves had been getting up to. (Another overheard exchange: “I know what girls do to relax after work. They take off their bras.”)
Sometimes, adults can look too hard at things, can spend too much time clawing through the shops and miss that mise en scene. Daughter Number Four isn’t fussed about the details. She’s a big-picture girl. It’s the Christmassy atmosphere that she wants to absorb. The magic of Kate McNugget. The magic of Santa. And perhaps the way to access that magic is to care a little less about getting it completely right. The presents you give yourself are the best ones. Forgive yourself for what you’ve overlooked. You’ll enjoy it more. Happy Christmas!