CHRISTMAS… MINUS ONE
Rosie Green is preparing for her first Christmas after the end of her marriage. But, with her typical humour, optimism and honesty, she’s almost looking forward to it
Rosie Green anticipates the first Christmas since her marriage ended
One day. Christmas is one day. So why does it hold such seismic importance? Because who we are with and what we are doing for that 24-hour time period has somehow come to symbolise to the world, and to ourselves, who we are, our values, our hopes, our achievements, our desires. Who loves us. And who we love. My editor asked me to write about my first Christmas as a family of three. Last year’s was pretty shitty in one way (my husband told me our marriage was over on 22nd December). But amazing in another (my cousin and his family took us in and showed us how much we were loved). So this Christmas it’s going to be different. And I want to make it different good, not different bad. I think Christmas Day is a bit like your wedding day. You want it to be a day of unabashed celebration and joy, but tradition can make it rigid in a way that often feels constricting. Turkey, gravy, brandy sauce. Present opening at 11am, lunch at 1pm, walk at 3pm, leftovers at 5pm. For my wedding, I wanted to wear a party dress and have flowers in jam jars and fondant fancies as the cake and be in the open air, but tradition means suddenly you end up with a top table and morning suits and a marquee because it might rain. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my wedding, but there’s a certain amount of bowing to the practicalities. And so it is with Christmas. Why do you feel obligated to wear a paper hat? To stuff yourself silly with leaden puddings? To spend four hours in the kitchen on a meal that’s eaten in 30 minutes?
Truth is, we’ve had 25 Christmas dinners by mid-december (work do, school friends, university friends, home friends, local friends, etc) so maybe we don’t need another one? So should we, as a family, do something different? Maybe. But then will it feel ‘less than’?
‘LIVING IN THE MOMENT IS THE ONLY OPTION’
Most of us have idealised Noël. It’s become a nostalgic vision of ruddy-cheeked children, a perfect meal and a loving family consisting of a square-jawed father, a benevolent mother and angelic children happy with their wooden toys. (NB children are never happy with wooden toys.) As a single child of a single mother, I always ached for the big family Christmas. Our house was full of love, but going to my aunt’s, with my adored older cousins, playing the card game Newmarket and watching the adults get more and more ruddy cheeked themselves was my happy place.
My aunt’s house was far grander and noisier than ours, and I was most content when the King’s College choir sang the first note of Once In Royal David’s City and we were in the kitchen as the carrots were being chopped into sticks. My granny would show off her yoga skills and I would dance around and eat said sticks before they made it into the pan.
The Christmas I turned eight, I got some goldfish (which quickly perished, as their tank had been lovingly painted with lead paint). And I got some shoes, which I was hoping would be shiny and patent, but turned out to be patchwork brown leather.
It was also the Christmas that I would see the cracks that all families have. But they were only hairline and, at base, we all loved each other. And still do.
But I always, always wanted a Christmas where I would not be the guest, but the host. And when we moved to the countryside to a picture-perfect cottage, with my picture-perfect kids and husband, I was granted that wish. I still had mismatching wine glasses. And however determined I was, I never managed anything approaching a tablescape, but still… I made the house look like the best approximation of The White Company catalogue I could. (I have never been able to wrap presents for shit, though: Sellotape everywhere and some patching up where I had not allocated enough paper).
My heart burst with joy doing all the Christmassy things. Going to fetch the tree together. Hanging the decorations. I wanted each bauble to hold meaning and delight. I revelled in the bustle and the bonhomie. Why? Because when mum and I had gone to get the tree, probably 10 stone between us, it was never the joyous experience I wanted it to be. We could never get it in the boot and then the lights wouldn’t work and there was always an emotional meltdown from one of us.
Last year, when my husband said he wanted to leave, he said we should still do a fake Christmas for the children. I told him I couldn’t do it. He told me I was selfish. So this year has to be better, right?
Do we abscond to a Caribbean island? To the slopes? There is obviously a financial and emotional implication to this.
In a quest to be positive, I’m thinking about all the things that could have been better before. I mean I’m not rewriting/reimagining my married years as miserable. We had lovely times, and for years I couldn’t have asked for anything more. But it wasn’t perfect. I wanted the tree on 1st December. He didn’t. I wanted to go ice-skating and drink mulled wine. He didn’t. I bought pretty much every present and he clicked a link to buy mine.
The idea that there might be someone out there who would care enough to think, really think, about what I might really want is pretty appealing. It’s not about flashy or expensive gifts, it’s about making an effort and showing appreciation. I know I speak for many other women who lock themselves in toilets and voicelessly scream because their partner got them exactly what they asked for. Or an ersatz version of it. To be fair, I think my presents were fairly uninspired, too. Which maybe tells you something.
But back to the plan… Well, I still don’t have a clue what we are doing. And this is reflective of my new reality, where certainties aren’t so. Where living in the moment is the only option. Which is both liberating and terrifying. These things I do know, though: I don’t want to replicate what we did minus one. I don’t want to spend half of it driving kids up and down the motorway. I do want to be surrounded by people I love. I do want to go for a walk or run. I know there will be tears and laughter, moments of both pain and joy. And in that sense, it’s a day like every other, right?