After the children have grown up
It’s 3am on December 25 and I’m creeping across the landing with a pillowcase of presents for my second daughter. It’s a time-worn tradition in our house. My four girls are in their teens and 20s, and every year I start buying small gifts in October, piling them lovingly together for the ‘surprise’ on Christmas morning.
But the bed is empty — she is still out clubbing. Further investigation reveals that her elder and younger sisters are, too. I sigh and leave the sacks by their beds. I’ve set my alarm as I always did. Now they’ll trip over the pillowcases as they fall into bed at dawn and we won’t see them until midday.
Back under my duvet I mourn the loss of all the wonderful Christmases when we had small children and you could feel the magic in the air. The breathless excitement of Christmas morning; the 5am arrivals in our bedroom, dragging their precious goodies; the girls leaving a mince pie and a carrot near the chimney, and in the morning finding in their place a letter of thanks in handwriting suspiciously similar to Dad’s.
My husband Gary and I created the enchantment for them and they kept it going for us: our youngest suspended her disbelief for years just so her father could write his annual note ‘from Santa’. But eventually even she couldn’t fake it and Christmas lost a bit of its magic.
As with any bittersweet change in life, you can either feel a little less because of it or you can embrace it and see the potential. I’m opting for the latter. When our second daughter spent a winter in Australia, the rest of us had Christmas with my brother and his wife — six of us was too many, but five could squeeze in.
Old traditions have given way to new ones: the girls buy identical onesies and drape themselves across the sofas, then post photos on Instagram. They’ve instigated an annual meet-up in the pub with their primary school pals. While they’re still in bed on Christmas morning, Gary and I have a glass of champagne in the kitchen; and on St Stephen’s Day we all head to a skating rink, throwing ourselves gratefully into the fresh air after a day indoors. When the children were little, it was impossible to tear them away from their presents and we all went a bit stir-crazy. A family Christmas is partly about the passage of time and the slow shifts in the narrative. We are bobbing on the festive tide of change. And change doesn’t stop; in time there will be grandchildren who will still be sleeping soundly at 3am. So my memories of the past, gratitude for the present and excitement for the future swirl around our tree like luxurious tinsel connecting all our Christmases — and all our lives. ➤