So how was your Christmas and New Year?
It’s safe to say it was absolutely nothing like mine, judging by my Facebook timeline this past week. Everyone else in the world apparently had a “magical” Christmas, and a “perfect” New Year.
Ugh.
There comes a moment somewhere around Boxing Day where I reach virtual saturation point, and can’t read any more about perfection and magic and wonderful and best ever. I’m glad you’re all such models of domestic happiness, but I get a bit – well – suspicious of all that perfection.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas as much as the next person. And our Christmas was really fun, and lovely, and all that sort of stuff. Why wouldn’t it be? There’s presents, an abundance of cheese and I don’t have to get up and do work on a daily basis. Tis marvellous.
Not to mention the fact that nobody got sick, which seems to be nothing short of a Christmas miracle judging by my friends and their families.
So yes, we do get into the festive spirit. There were presents and carols and church and baking and family board games and stockings and all those lovely things. We saw relatives we don’t see nearly often enough, and there was certainly lots of laughter. We had a ball.
But there’s also this:
- The moment where I made my child cry for 20 minutes because I told her I was disappointed that she’d gone rummaging in a bag filled with her Christmas stocking presents, which I lied and told her were part of a special Christmas Eve surprise from Mummy, and so she was gutted because she loves surprises.
- The moment where Flea and I sat outside the church on Christmas Eve in our car, looked at the rain pouring down and agreed we’d skip the crib service and go home to watch a movie in front of the fire instead. Sorry about that, God.
- The moment I realised I’d passed on the Whittle competitive gene to Flea after she annihilated her Dad in a game of Frustration and gleefully shouted, “HA! SUCKS TO BE YOU” at him over my parents’ dining table.
- The moment during Christmas dinner when I mentioned the HFR filming used in The Hobbit movie and my ex laughed and said, “It’s like watching my dog play the piano” at the mere idea of a woman having an opinion on The Hobbit so I made obscene gestures at him under the table. Sorry about that, once again, God. Dreadful etiquette.
- The moment where I then got so good at hiding presents that I didn’t find a whole bag of them until a whole five days AFTER Christmas. Result.
- The moment yesterday when Flea stole the treasure that obviously should have been mine in a 2-player game of Skylanders, resulting in the one of us who isn’t a child saying, “I don’t want to play any more,” and switching over to Come Dine With Me, in a Big Fat Strop.
- The moment where I felt so guilty at making Flea almost cry with my Big Fat Strop that I drove all the way to Argos so she could buy a new Skylanders figure with her Christmas money, and then we came home and played for two hours straight. Awesome parenting, I know.
- The two weeks we’ve been unable to use the downstairs wc because the GIGANTIC box for the Christmas Tree is in there and I’m basically too idle to go out in the rain and put it in the garage. Every so often I hear Flea try the door and then race frantically upstairs and I feel a teeny little moment of guilt. Then it passes.
- The moment last night when I crept upstairs to wake Flea at midnight and whispered, “Guess what? It’s 2013…” and Flea turned over and muttered, “Yeah. So what?”
Like I said. Not magical.
But lots of fun. And very us.
Happy New Year – here’s to another year of glorious imperfection.
