This Christmas there I’ll be. In my beautiful festive dress draped over my streamlined curves. High heels on, make up perfect. The house will smell of turkey and chestnuts and a hint of cinnamon. Johnny Mathis will be singing about a child being born. My own darling children will be playing side by side with the toys that Santa has brought. I’ll be serenely sipping some pink champagne as I make interesting chit chat with my dinner guests.
I’ll be feeling it in my fingers, I’ll be feeling it in my toes. Love will be all around us.
Christmas will be so Christmassy that it might as well be picked up and plonked on the 24 hour Christmas film channel.
It will be so perfect. So, so, so perfect.
I love Christmas. I really do. But all this preparation isn’t as fun as I remember. I’m actually not sure if “doing” Christmas is a mammoth operation or I have just made it into one.
So far I’ve completed the typical check list.
- I’ve bribed uninterested children into watching Elf with me with chocolate even though they’d rather be playing Temple Run 2 (and I’ve realised once again the Will Ferrell is the most odious man EVA).
- I’ve done the work Christmas do and got plastered after vowing to only have one drink.
- I’ve single handed stripped the supermarkets of boxes of Celebrations and Roses for the neighbours (all 12 of them).
- I’ve cried at the new Disney film (a lot), the John Lewis advert and the credit card bill (who knew so many Celebrations tubs could cost so much).
- I’ve shouted at grown men dressed as elves as you have to book to see the big man everywhere this year and I’m too disorganised to do that (just who does he think he is!!)
- I’ve spend 500 hours wrapping presents and muttering under my breath as I lose some more bits of my lips (to a backdrop of Slade and Wham).
- I’ve missed the nativity play with a work meeting and felt crap about it.
- And hinted upon deaf man ears for five weeks about certain perfumes, bags and make up.
Today I realised the tinsel tension has to go. It is sending me crackers. I hit a new low when I loudly tutted at an elderly lady who spent too long checking vouchers against her “big” Christmas shop (WTF – she then apologised to me, the impatient brat); I’ve burst into tears in the car after getting lost on the way to an appointment with Gabe and I’ve put contact lenses on top of already placed contact lenses and spent hours wondering why my eyes were blurry (googling cataracts and floaty eyes is very interesting BTW).
In this stress to create something sensational and magical, I’ve lost some of the sparkle for myself. Sure, it’s been a frazzled few weeks what with settling Gabe into his new special school (which is fab) and the hour round trip twice a day (if the traffic is good). We have also had the dreaded wheelchair assessment and no, they didn’t throw me out for wasting their time as I had fantasised. With some dear friends facing tough Christmas periods this year, I knew I was in danger of getting this all wrong.
So what if your house looks like a Christmas advert, if you are narking at your nearest and dearest because no one wants to write Santa another letter in glittery pen (but this set is so much nicer than the last set). Perhaps its time to take my foot off the seasonal speed pedal and try and relax and enjoy just being with my little family and friends.
I recalled an article I read recently in Marie Claire about this amazing, innovative and right up my street stress buster. It is called “f**k it” therapy. I think all mums (and dads!) should go on a course in late November before the madness seeps in. The basic premise is to not care so much what others think of you and whether your life matches up to the fable of someone else’s life. Christmas is especially one of the worse times for doing it.
It really resonated with me as it was one of my late great dad’s favourite sayings. He lived and breathed the f**k it philosophy. Or the fug it therapy if you are like me and are more genteel and (ahem) ladylike.
So I am officially throwing out the Magic and Sparkle marketing propaganda and adopting this new kick arse mentality. For no matter the planning, the little golden nuggets that stick in your memory tend to come from the strangest places.
- If it doesn’t feel Christmassy 24/7 for the next few days. Fug it.
- If Gabe decides he thinks the Jesus geezer is hogging the limelight, and pulls a sicky. Fug it.
- If the kids open their presents and then look bored. Fug it.
- If the vegetables go to mush and the turkey is dry (as I’m actually a crap cook). Fug it.
- If no one eats their dinner (as they have stuffed up on 12 return present tubs of celebrations). Fug it.
- If littlest man pulls an all night party in chez club cot all week. Fug it.
- If I don’t have time to even sniff in the direction of the gym. Fug it.
- If we finish this last series of Breaking Bad and have to watch normal TV like peasants. Fug it.
- If me and him argue every night about who is getting up to put Gabe’s sock back on. Fug it.
- If there are hiccups along the way. Fug it.
- If the drink runs out, don’t Fug it, get the shop quick.
Here is a little mantra to help.
Fugger fuggerty fuggery foo
If Christmas turns out at times to be slightly poo
Keep your calm as what can you do
Take hope there’ll be at least a lie in or two
And Downton is on with Doctor Who
So after heaps of scrabble, monopoly or peek a boo
Pour out the fizz, and remember it’s also about you.
And altogether now, after three, FUG IT!!!!
|Gabe says: “Mum come back. Who is this man? I promise I’ll be good.”|