Before I became a Mum I was all about the Christmas excess. I started my shopping in November and kept going until Christmas Eve. I used to spend a small fortune on gifts. Banjos, helicopter rides, expensive perfumes, cashmeres and computer games. Every Friday during November and December was Black Friday to me. So, naturally, I thought that if I ever had children I would go into festive overdrive. Santa pyjamas, selection boxes and Elves on the Shelves to beat the band!
But something funny happens when you have a child. Things that were once important suddenly don’t seem to matter anymore. Now Christmas shopping, Black Fridays and the endless stream of buying more stuff just rings hollow for me. Little P is only small so she doesn’t want loads of ‘stuff’ (a teddy bear is the only thing she has asked for this year). But at this point in her young life I know that I have the power to make her think that she wants loads of stuff. I could show her toy catalogues and TV ads, bring her to shops and turn her into a mini consumer. But why would I do that. She deserves more from Christmas.
When I think back to my childhood Christmases I get all misty eyed because they were very special indeed. But what was it that made them so special? It certainly wasn’t the amount of toys or presents. I can only remember two Santa presents in detail. One was a Wendy House and the only reason I remember is because there’s a photo of me in said Wendy House looking very pleased with myself after one too many Curly Wurlys. The second one is Crystal Barbie and let’s face it who could ever forget Crystal Barbie! It wasn’t the old cliche about family time that made it so special either. I was very fortunate to grow up with all my extended family living close by so I saw them all almost every day, not just at Christmas.
For me the really special thing about Christmas, the one quality that set it apart from every other time of the year, was the magic. The kind jolly man in a red suit who visited every child on Christmas Eve to deliver presents. We couldn’t even stay up late and meet him. He was almost too good to be true but we knew he had to be real because all the adults talked about him too. The magic began with the ‘Shop’ Santa visit in early December. it had to be the Dunnes Stores Santa because he definitely wasn’t one of the helpers. He was obviously the real Santa because he had a real beard.
On Christmas Eve we watched the news (even the news people knew about Santa!). We had to check if he had left the North Pole on schedule and had good weather conditions for his round the world trip. They even had official satellite pictures. Then the ritual of leaving out a carrot for Rudolph, a mince pie and a bottle of beer for Santa. Peering out into the stars before we went asleep and straining our ears to hear the sleigh bells. My parents were always just as excited as we were.
Then in the morning scrambling around in the dark for the lumpy stuffed stocking at the end of the bed. The bedroom filled with the scent of satsumas. We always waited patiently at the top of the stairs for Mum and Dad to fully wake up (there was no way we would dare to go down on our own). There were always tiny bits of white fluff that had fallen off Santa’s coat in the hallway. Finally, after plenty of build-up, Dad would open the sitting room door. The Christmas Tree lights sparkled and each one of us would make a dash to whatever surprise had been left under the tree. The half eaten carrot was left on the fireplace and mince pie crumbs on the plate. Santa had actually touched one of our plates. Imagine that!?
You see it didn’t really matter what we got under the tree, because the real magic was in how it got there. And that’s what I want to pass on to Little P. The magic of Christmas. A special and rare kind of magic that can be shared between adults and children alike. As Dr Seuss wrote way back in 1957:
‘Maybe Christmas doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, he thought, means a little bit more’.
‘How The Grinch Stole Christmas’, Dr Seuss.