Madame Grinch

It takes a while to get me in the mood.  Christmas is a production which I have only myself to blame for and perhaps my mother, who put on her own Christmas extravaganza creating the magic year after year while Sally and I were growing up.  Around November of this year I started longing for an exit.  A holiday somewhere in the sunshine such as the year we went to Australia and Christmas sort of came and went without us really noticing because how on earth was I going to find the energy to source original fun presents for everyone, make hundreds of mince pies, feed the cake, order the turkey, remember presents for all the teachers, and create a loving Christmas atmosphere once again? 

Over the years I have sent many Christmas cards and there was even a period of about eight years where as proud parents I would send a photo-diary of my kids growing up:  The frizzy hair, the braces, the spots and the gangliness are all documented alongside a slowly fattening dog.  Now it is nigh on impossible to get three children together in time to produce the Christmas photo and perhaps this is an excuse or perhaps I am becoming more Swiss than is good for me  but  I have noticed that for the past few years I am sending fewer and fewer cards.  This is not a reflection on the reduction in mine and Mr. Jules’ friends (although it might be) but more of a weariness concerning the superficiality of sending a card around the world with a trite message and my signature followed by four fake signatures.  This year I even resorted to a pile of cards near the door and when I received a card I then sent one back.  What was I thinking?  How terrible is that? 

I had a hissy fit around the beginning of December as someone had stolen/borrowed my Diana Krall Christmas music and Mr. Jules would not let me listen to Il Divo as he says they are kitsch – okay a bit but pretty boys.  Then Lexi came home from school and burst into tears because a) she couldn’t find the yellow envelope with the money for her sponsored dictée (dictation) and get this, b) she had no idea, sob sob wail,  what to get for Aunty Nadia for Christmas.  Seriously, Christmas stress at nine years old.

And then something started happening.  A slow seeping into this hard skin of mine.  Some touching messages, Lexi going all bright eyed putting up the tree (when I can only think of how to get the sodding thing down again before we leave for the mountains), Ollie bursting into a carol running up the stairs, staying up late with Sophie whilst she put the finishing touches to the school Christmas film, the first snow flakes falling from the sky, drinking hot wine in freezing temperatures at the stables and my girlies dressed up in their finest for their piano recital and the armour slipped away. 

This week my friend Rolf buries his father and my friend Georges celebrates his sixtieth with a big party.  As I SMS Rolf, look forward to the party, wrap gifts  and send out Christmas messages I reflect on how life is just so full of contradictions and how we have to keep looking for the magic.