19 December 2023 , 18:07
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Last year, my son – who’d just turned eight – came up to me mid-morning on December 25 with a strange expression on his face.
“It’s just a normal day, isn’t it?” he whispered, slightly forlorn.
I opened my mouth to begin a lecture about gratitude; all the time, money and effort his dad and I had put in, and perhaps call him a spoilt brat for good measure – but then I remembered. Being around his age, and having the same crashing realisation.
In early childhood, if you’re lucky, Christmas is so incredibly, wonderfully, mind-blowingly magical you simply can’t believe it, or take it in. Life seems to just glow for 24 hours in a way that’s almost otherworldly. And then you get to an age when you suddenly notice that the presents, food and gatherings are nice, and fun, but underneath all that it’s just Monday.
You still like Christmas, still look forward to it – goodness knows my boy is this year – but you’re more realistic. It’s probably a rite of passage, something that happens to everyone as they mature. Like when you go from hoping for enormous presents ( toys ) to small presents (jewellery). Or, as has happened to me this year, when you recognise that what you really want can’t
be bought.
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My dream gift would be to spend the day with my dad, who died in 2012. Without being twee, or flip, also world peace, please, obviously with the people of Israel, Gaza and Ukraine at the forefront of that wish. One more long, enlightening, laughter-filled chat with the aunt I was especially close to who we lost this year. I’d also like to perform a Christmas miracle for some friends who are facing a challenging 2024.
There are so many cliched platitudes around at this time of year about being thankful – for those you love, what you have, where you are – they almost become white noise that fades into the background, easy to ignore.
We never had a video camera while I was growing up, but there’s some footage of one festive family lunch when I was an adult and sitting next to my dad at the table.
I’m nattering away to the person on my other side, mostly ignoring him to an extent I find unbearable now. Why wasn’t I clinging to him throughout, hanging on his every word? If I’d known our Christmases together were numbered, surely I wouldn’t have taken his presence for granted like that?
And yet, I did know, didn’t I? We all know. But it’s sad and scary to think about, so we don’t.
Maybe we should all try to take a moment, mid-turkey, this year. Pay proper attention. Look at the faces around the table. And remember that at some point in the future, never mind Christmas, we’ll be absolutely desperate to spend just Monday with them.