’Tis the season of Nativity meltdowns

This week: Christmas is coming, and I’m in demand when it comes to looking after Rose

Rose is convinced that the Christmas lights in town have been put up specifically to celebrate her birthday. I can’t wait for her to open her presents. I’ve bought her a writing desk, because the scrawls on the hall walls show signs of a budding writer. And Newish Husband is already laying bets on her being a Formula One driver (hence his gift of a toddler-size sports car).

The prize for the most imaginative present, though, goes to the third set of grandparents; a life-size play fish tank, complete with plastic fluorescent occupants.

We all go out for lunch, but Rose keeps demanding “chocolate cake” and then pointing at me (it’s the only thing that keeps her quiet when we’re on our own). Nothing like a toddler truth to put you in the dock.

The good cheer doesn’t last for long. A few days later, we reach Christmas meltdown. Mine, that is.

It appears there’s been a run on angel wings in the local shops, thanks to the glut of nativity plays. My daughter is up to her eyes with baby George, so I volunteer to make Rose’s playgroup costume myself out of cereal boxes and foil. “Looks like a dead fish,” snorts NH.

“How’s your costume going, then?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” he says. “I volunteered you for the donkey.” He is not happy. However, in the spirit of not wanting to let Rose down, he grudgingly agrees. I take to my study for a bit of quiet but then my phone rings. It’s my daughter: “Mum, are you doing anything?”

This is always a dangerous question. I want to say “no” because I love helping out. But I also have a job. It might not involve going to an office every day but I often end up working far beyond 9-5.

“Rose has a terrible cough and I don’t want George to catch a cold. Plus, the builder has arrived early, so we can’t stay in because of the noise.”

“They live together,” I point out. “So he’s going to get it anyway.”

“Yes, but I need to minimise contact. Can you have her – just for the morning, so I can go shopping?” I hesitate. Only briefly but long enough.

“Don’t you want her, Mum?” I think about my work – and then about a heartbroken friend whose son moved abroad and who now only sees her grandchildren once a year. “Of course I do.” “Great. By the way, can you get her checked at the doctor?”

There’s a long wait in the surgery, so Rose and I pass the time playing with the blood pressure machine. Mine is impossibly low, considering my current level of stress – so I take it again. Rose’s name is called at exactly the point when my arm is being crushed. I can’t extricate myself. Luckily, a passing patient points out the emergency button.

The doctor declares her “fine”, even though Rose is hacking away like a 50-a-day-er. When we get back, NH is crawling around on all fours, practising his donkey technique. “What are you wearing?” I ask.

“I cut up my old suits,” he brays proudly. Time to come clean. “Actually, I was only having you on about the donkey.”

NH seems genuinely disappointed but bucks up on the day of the performance when Rose and another angel have an impromptu onstage fight over wands. “Best show I’ve seen all year,” beams NH when she wins. No sooner are we home than the phone rings. “Mum, it’s me. The cats have knocked over the fish tank and the kitchen floor is flooded. Can you look after the children?”

“Until when?” “Christmas Eve?” I’m not even sure she’s joking.

Next week: And it’s goodbye from us

‘The good cheer doesn’t last for long. A few days later, we reach Christmas meltdown – mine’