When I was teaching Dystopian fiction, I was once asked by a student, what my idea of dystopia would be… ‘A world where it’s Christmas every day. Sharp intake of breath, 30 pairs of shocked, disappointed eyes on me. I’m not even sorry.
Yes, that’s right. Call me a Scrooge, a Grinch, whatever – but that would be hell on earth. Christmas, and all that goes with it, every day? Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas – I do. But since I’ve had my children, things have changed in the way I approach the festive season. I now know that Christmas does not happen. Christmas is created. My children love it so much that I feel such an enormous sense of pressure to get it right.
I now understand why my mum does that mumbling-list-writing from late July, starts writing the cards in October and has done the Christmas Day washing up by the 23rd December. She also loves Christmas… she just wants to do it well. And that can be somewhat of a burden.
My plan this year is to make light of that. To embrace the hilarity of Christmas with 3 young children (one with a Christmas time birthday) and a husband who is (apparently) allergic to Christmas shopping.
Thus, here begins a series of posts about how we survive the festive period. When I say survive, it makes it sound like it’s an ordeal (some days it is an ordeal, I’m not going to lie) and other days it’s a beautiful, harmonious joyful affair – either way, it’s exhausting. Join me, laugh at me, share your stories of Christmas chaos.
Final thought for the day:
Son: How old is Father Christmas?
Me: Ooh very old
Son: But how old? If he’s magic, how did he get so old? Why would you magic yourself old? That can’t be fun.
Son: And where’s his children? Are they getting old too? Or are they dead? That’s weird that he’s still making presents for everyone if his children are dead.
Me: Right. Well, many things to think about there. Many, wonderful things. Shall we open the Christmas biscuits?
Son: (under breath, shaking head) Does surprise me you’ve never asked these things yourself.