Pollyism of the week

Christmas has jumped out at me like a bloodthirsty mad clown in a spooky haunted house. I got ambushed by Kris Kringle and I’m very, very frightened.

I’m not sure if I’ve been distracted by New Zealand’s housing issues, the royals being in town (I’m officially in love with Harry and Megs) or just in denial, but walking into department stores and being greeted by Nutcrackers and fairy lights has hit me like a runaway sleigh.

I’m not prepared. What’s the opposite of prepared? Unprepared doesn’t seem extreme enough for anything like Christmas.

I wonder how it would go with the family if instead of presents this year, we did something different? By different, I mean free. Would my kids be terribly proud of my newfound anti-commercial ethics and think it awfully evolutionary of me to say we’ve moved on from gifts to writing poetry for each other? Having now traced our lineage back to a lauded English poet, it does seem plausible. Maybe?

If not poetry, then what about we all make something for each other? Definitely a disastrous idea. It reminds me of my friend Marc who was truly horrified when his sister gave him a painted rock. Might have washed if he was eight, but at 30, Marc was more than underwhelmed.

Why, oh, why does Christmas have to involve money? I so wish I’d been one of those mothers who made sensible rules early. You know them – parents who make everyone draw a name from a hat and then each family member gets one present and they all seem happy, content and well-adjusted. Or that we were the family who gifted a goat in lieu of buying pressies for each other. How brilliant if I had raised offspring offended by the holiday commercialism.

Instead, I raised parcelripping little consumers. Spoilt, but perfectly delicious. It’s my fault – I was the mum who wanted my kids to get more than SolidGoldHits Volume14 and bubble bath. How I wish their wish lists now said “a goat for Africa and some bubble bath”.

Here’s my plan: I leave town a week before the big day. I leave a ham in the fridge, a bottle of bubbly or two and a store-bought pavlova in the cupboard ready to be adorned with cream. I hang stockings on the mantel, each containing an orange and some nuts, and a game of Monopoly on the dining table. There’d be a big note saying simply, “Merry Christmas! Have fun!”

I’ll disappear for two weeks and by the time I get back, Christmas will be over and we’ll all laugh about how clever I was.

Let’s see what happens, eh? My guess is I’ll go into crippling debt to buy an Xbox, a Deadly Ponies bag and a new iPhone. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but bah humbug and roll on Boxing Day!