‘twas The Night Before Christmas

When I was growing up, Christmas was magical.  It really was.  I’m not making that up.  I grew up in the north of England in the 1970s and 1980s.  Global warming wasn’t a thing.  We had snow and toboggans and fires in the fire places.  Father Christmas came early on Christmas Eve so that we could shout up the chimney to him and then, miracle of miracles, what we had asked for in our conversations with him up the chimney, appeared under the tree the next morning.

Even after Father Christmas was just a twinkle in my dad’s eye and as I grew into a teenager, our Christmases were still perfect.  We had a large Victorian house at the top of a hill.  My parents had decorated it throughout in William Morris Wallpaper and our living room was the piece de resistance. The wallpaper had a dark green base with bright red poppies which, in the long nights of winter, seemed even more vibrant.  It had a large bay window which, of course, was the perfect spot for the ceiling height tree that took pride of place.  We had holly and ivy trailing up through the banisters and beautiful red, white, gold and silver decorations from Germany and Denmark which my dad picked up on his frequent work trips.

My mum’s parents, who we adored, came to stay with us for the winter.  Nanna made Welsh cakes and Bara Brith with mum.  Grampa took over his domain sitting at the kitchen table with his “fags”, occasionally peeling potatoes but always reading the paper, playing chess with my younger brother, teaching my younger sister how to play cribbage, me how to play patience and chewing the fat with my older sister.  Dad was the resident chef in our family and Christmas lunch was always a feast for the eyes and stomach.  Mum and Nanna took us kids to church on Christmas morning whilst dad prepared the food and Grampa kept him company. We opened presents, ate a traditional Christmas lunch, watched the Queen’s Speech and played with the various gifts we had received.

For a number of years, my dad had a PhD student who was living in Lancaster with his young family.  As Muslims, they didn’t celebrate Christmas and were on their own, so they were invited to our house for Christmas afternoon to have some sense of community and connection.  As kids, we loved them coming.

And then I grew up. 

My family migrated to Australia and my older sister died 5 weeks before Christmas.  Christmas has never been the same since.  I was incredibly lucky to have 19 years of the Christmas fairytale.  Most people don’t ever get a fairytale; either for Christmas or any other time of the year.

That first Christmas in Australia without my sister was surreal.  We were all reeling and grieving and who cared about the turkey.  My dad cared about the turkey though and made sure we were going to eat well that day.  Mum and Dad wanted my younger brother and sister to feel some sense of comfort, so once I arrived from the UK for my month’s university holiday, we plotted and adopted two kittens which we let loose in their bedrooms on Christmas morning as a surprise.  The kittens helped us all get through that day.

At some point Christmases got easier and then all of a sudden there was a new generation.  My dad threw himself into Christmas for his growing tribe of grandsons.  He had a new partner in the kitchen in the shape of my sister’s husband who was an actual chef.  The traditional northern hemisphere Christmas feast flew out the window after that first Christmas.  Christmas in the heat was no place for a roast turkey with all the trimmings.  The two of them planned elaborate salads and cold roast turkey and roast duck.  We had pavlova for dessert along with Christmas cake and Welsh cakes.  An enduring tradition in memory of my Nanna and our welsh heritage.

And then my brother in law died.  That same year, on Christmas Eve my dad was told the prostate cancer he had was not responding to chemotherapy and only had a couple of months to live.  That was not a good Christmas.

Ten years on, we endure Christmas, we don’t celebrate Christmas.  I am sitting here, writing this 3 weeks before Christmas with no decorations, and no tree.  I will probably put them up at some point prior to Christmas but I feel no obligation to.  

There are millions of families around the world who endure Christmas rather than celebrate Christmas.  I’m not an expert at enduring Christmas but I do have some ideas that might help others who also endure Christmas so I thought I would share them, just in case they are useful.

When I think about the Christmases that have been easiest in our new (ish) normal, they have been the years where we have invited others to share it with us.  Having someone else sit at the table makes the empty chairs less visible.  The Muslim family from Lancaster came to Sydney briefly and so came one year.  We also had lots of visitors from the UK staying with us at various times so they celebrated with us.  Our adult friends who were on their own without family for Christmas came for the day.  

The second thing that helps is changing up the routine entirely.  A few Christmases ago we had the best Christmas since my brother in law and dad died.  We were building a house and we were determined to have Christmas Day in our new kitchen.  The house however wasn’t finished.  

I had pre-warned our builder that there was zero negotiation room on the Christmas deadline.  On Christmas Eve, he made sure the kitchen bench was installed (albeit being held up with a wooden post whilst the glue dried).  He cleared all of his building paraphernalia to the side so we could set up a table and chairs and we put up and decorated a Christmas tree.  The icing on the cake was the tradie who managed to fit us in on Christmas Eve as a special favour, so the render on the outside of the house was finished in time.  

On Christmas Day we set up the food on the bench top which we had pre-prepared at our temporary rental property and ate whatever we wanted in whatever order we wanted; if the kids decided they were going to eat dessert first that was completely ok (they didn’t).  Eight years later we still do that.  The kids read their books or tried out their new skateboards and then went to explore our new neighbourhood.  The adults sat on the deck and every so often commented on the perfect colour of the render.  It’s still my most favourite recent Christmas memory.

The third thing we do is to prepare.  Prior to Christmas we all have a conversation about what we want to do on Christmas Day and we try to accomodate all of the requests.  They’re never big or extravagant.  

Now that the kids are teenagers and young adults we have stopped doing Christmas stockings.  We put together Christmas survival packs instead.  They involve something to read, something they need, something they want, something to wear and a drinking vessel of some sort.  They get to choose their favourite “unhealthy” cereal which goes in along with some chocolates, fruit and a couple of little surprises.  They’ve never understood the fruit tradition.  The adults get a survival pack too.

Other people I know have either volunteered or attended a Christmas meal that many charitable institutions hold for their local communities.  For people who are homeless, or vulnerable in other ways, or simply just on their own.  I have always received reports about how beautiful these days are when people are connected to others.

For many years I have worked with separated or divorced parents.  Christmas or Hanukkah or Eid or Diwali or any particular cultural tradition are all difficult days.  I invite them to think of their relevant festival as a period of time, not a specific day.  Christmas, my traditional day, is the 25th of December.  It doesn't have to be.  We don’t actually know what day Jesus was born.  There is no reason why Christmas can’t be celebrated on the 24th or 26th December.  In fact in Northern Europe, Christmas is celebrated on Christmas Eve.

When I moved to Sydney I was surprised and a little uncomfortable with the amount of driving I saw people undertake; whether families were separated or intact.  Christmas morning with one family, Christmas lunch with another and perhaps even Christmas night with a third.  How on earth is anyone, particularly the children, going to enjoy a day spent in a car?  Even more so when parents have separated or divorced and there is an argument every year about who gets the kids?  If there is a way to distress children then that is the perfect example.  

If we think of significant festivals as a period of time, then we don’t actually create a situation where children feel like they are a football being passed between houses.  They get to spend quality time with each parent and each side of their family, as long as it is safe of course.  Adults should not be arguing/debating/trying to work out who “gets the kids”.  When someone “gets the kids” then the only ones who miss out are the actual kids.  Instead, can’t we change the conversation and create a situation where everyone wins, especially the children?  It will look different for everyone because every family is unique.  There doesn’t have to be a rule, other than the most important people in the equation are the children.

Traditions become traditions because someone or a group of people did something once and then repeated it.  There are zero reasons why some traditions can’t be ended and new traditions begun or even purposefully having no tradition and doing something different every year.

In the lead up to Christmas, for those of you who are enduring rather than celebrating, I wish you peace and wellbeing.  As always, I hope my thoughts are helpful; either for you, the reader, or for you to pass on to someone else.

Angharad