Ho ho hold on there, pardner
Have I mentioned recently that my parents dislike holidays? Today they telephoned me to say that (although we are supposed to spending several days with them next week) they were thinking of not having a tree.
Nor a wreath. Nor stockings. Nor a creche. Nor probably even a poinsettia. Nor nothing.
Really. Nothing. No sparkly lights. No tinsel. No fa la la. No dreidels, even. No Yule log. No gingerbread. No hammentaschen. No carolling.
“What do you think,” asked my father, cheerfully.
“I think that’s crazy,” I said bluntly.
Honestly, sometimes I wonder how they spawned me. It’s not like I’m always beautifully crafty like some bloggers I love. But I do love holidays, especially this one. I love the mulled wine and the lights on people’s house (although not the inflatables). I love carolling and going for walks and digging out the Christmas books and watching the specials and the whole thing. The one gap in my whole Christmas fervour (well, other than the crazy consumerist thing) is a belief in Santa.
You will not be surprised (considering the above) to hear that I never believed in Father Christmas. My sisters and I were never under any illusions as to who filled our stockings. I probably broke the hearts of more than one other child in my confident and cheerful disbelief in all things Santa. Yet I love stories and pretend and magic and fairy dust and think there should be more such things in our live. So when I had children of my own, I was sort of neutral.
Ed believed in Father Christmas, although I suspect it was a solid, unflappable sort of philosophical acceptance of the possibility of such a figure rather than a raging belief. He’s not a raging sort of person. But he thought it would be nice and I thought it would be nice if we left Father Christmas a mince pie and a large sherry which I could then consume to bolster the wrapping process. So Father Christmas fills stockings in our house (coming in through the keyhole) and the presents under the tree are from friends and family.
It’s a comfortable compromise although I think Daniel already suspects that it’s just a nice story. He seems fine with that. His world is filled with nice stories and I’m going to keep it that way. Perhaps someday he will blog irritably about his mother’s preoccupation with mistletoe and holly and how he longs for a quiet weekend. That’s fine. I hope that I will notice and respect that when it happens. Right now, though, I want to make the house smell of Christmas. And to take a deep breath and let my parents be their crazy selves and for that to be okay.
My mother wanted to boycott Christmas and take us to Mexico. We talked her out of it (this year, we told her that when a plane trip with Julian didn’t fill my heartw ith dread, she could take us to any tropical locale of her choosing) and has been baking cookies non stop this past week. She is a woman of extremes.
Letting parents be crazy is part of becoming an adult. Break out the nutmeg and cinnamon and make sure you spike your own glass of eggnog.
I like the once-a-years, too – the Christmas tree atwinkle with lights, balsam wreaths, eggnog with nutmeg, the possibility of Santa, and the snowy postcard landscapes. But next year, my grown children and I have agreed to forego the frenzy of consumerism and celebrate the solstice with food and light. We’ll keep the tree (something green and twinkly to light the darkest day) but we’ll exchange only food we make ourselves or things that bring light – writings, poems, even books – anything that illuminates. It all sounds calm and beautiful.
When the girls grow up, they will think 9 out of 10 things we do as family “traditions” aren’t worth passing on, and that’s fine. But if they say to their partners: “Ya know, my mom always did this one thing, and [insert holiday] just wouldn’t be same to me if we didn’t do that as well, so do you mind?” than I think all this memory-building will be worth it to me.
Oh my god, parents are nuts, at least we can learn not to be like them, mine are as mad as yours sound too, my mother has a violent hatered of computers and refuses to look at my blog although I set it up for her benifit in the first place, she thinks my work is a cute hobby and treats me as if I am a slightly naughty 12 year old, they get worse as they get older too. The worst bit is that I still love them so its all very painful! I hope you have a throughly mulled, piney, sparkley and keyholed christmas. xx Love your blog, love the way you think.
You are so right… we are all crazy and its okay.
Happy Christmas.