Mother Christmas

 

'It's the most wonderful time of the year...' So goes the song.

I'm sitting here as I write, popping Stollen bites into my mouth at thirty second intervals and admiring the sight and smell of my Christmas tree. It really is a nice feeling - the twinkly lights, the warm glow of knowledge that I'll get to spend a special few days with my children, and the excitement of what will be under the tree for them when the 'Big Man' has been. The only scratch on the bauble is that the 'Big Man' is inevitably me.

As much as I'm enjoying these Stollen bites, eating them is somewhat like an athlete squirting an energy gel down their throat after finishing the London Marathon. It's both a reward and a vital replacement of nutrients to combat complete and utter exhaustion. Many people will feel the same at this time of year, and although there are a lot of families out there where Dad or other significant males are doing the donkey work, the majority of the donkey's burden falls to the women. And it is indeed a heavy load.

I don't even go too over the top at Christmas time - if Sainsburys is happy to wrap chipolatas in bacon for a price, I will happily pay to save myself the bother - but I have had lists, sub-lists, and post-it note lists on the go since late November. First came the presents, and after the sweet relief of all those Amazon deliveries came the food planning. Then the present wrapping and the pre-making of whatever food can be stored or frozen in advance. Then all the end-of -term organising for school - presents for teachers and school friends, remembering all the non-uniform days and payments for Christmas lunch day and Christmas party food day, which both apparently need to be observed. A text from the school bus from the eldest saying he needs a Christmas jumper and a Secret Santa present for the following day. Mother Christmas once again gets in the sleigh/Ford Focus and duly obliges.

And so it goes on. I'm sure lots of you will identify. I have an amazing and supportive partner - he really would do anything I ask of him, and he does his fair share around the house. I've never rodded a drain, mowed a lawn, or got anything down from the loft since we've been together. But, he doesn't cook, and since a neatly strimmed lawn border is not that useful at Christmas time, the preparations fall squarely at my feet. He doesn't lack the willing, just the necessary skills. If I dispatched him to do the fifth and final Christmas food shop, he wouldn't realise the significant difference between cooked, pre-packed chestnuts and their rock solid uncooked counterparts, which might give my stuffing an interesting texture, but will also give me a nervous breakdown. So in the interests of avoiding future stress, we add it to sub-list number seventeen and just crack on.

The more I thought about the food responsibilities, it reminded me of all the other ways that Christmas adds to the emotional labour of womanhood. I recently read Caitlin Moran's fantastic book 'More Than A Woman' which has a chapter about the differences between men and women, noting that men really do exist on another plane where it wouldn't even occur to them to worry about whether the tableware matches or if this gravy recipe is better than another. It's not a criticism, it's just an observation that their brains are wired differently. So it feels like it is the woman's job to create the perfect Christmas. 

Choosing presents that mean something. Arranging the decorations on the tree so they balance and complement each other. Making sure not to include smoked salmon in the Christmas lunch starter as Grandad doesn't like it. Thinking of another twenty-four ways for the bastard Elf On The Shelf to get up to amusing mischief. The list goes on. Followed by a sub-list.

So here we are, a week away from the day itself. Despite the past month of preparations, there is still the final leg to go, the epic three day triathlon of cooking, entertaining and cleaning up on the horizon. But we wouldn't have it any other way, would we? And at least there's Baileys. Thank the lord for Baileys.

LJ