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December 2019 | REDONLINE.CO.UKexperience
Follow Rosie Green’s
journey in her column on
redonline.co.uk or follow her
on instagram @lifesrosieMost 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?‘LIVING IN THE
MOMENT IS THE
ONLY OPTION’
PH
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