Christmas

My Christmas began on the 24th when, at just after three, Dan and Tallis swooped through the house like a breeze, laden with presents and merriment and orders of “just sit down and put your foot up, for God’s sake.” And so that’s what I did…found my comfy spot on the sofa as they reacquainted themselves with the house they hadn’t been in since June. I watched Dan making cups of tea; watched the expression on his face when he realised the canister which holds the teabags was empty. Then, without hesitation, he opened the cupboard to his left to retrieve a new box. It made me smile that he hadn’t forgotten…that being away for so long hadn’t erased the memories of how things once were, and that nothing had changed.

Dan busied himself with making brownies – extra presents for his and Tallis’s Dad. All I could do was sit back and wonder where the years had gone, and how it had come about that my little boy who was once so desperate to get to bed at tea-time in order to make Christmas Day come around quicker, was now making an infused butter and filling the house with wonderful aromas of grated orange peel and spices.

It had been my intention to cook Spaghetti Bolognese for tea, after reading Dan’s blog entry last week entitled ‘Dear Mummy’ in which he told me he missed – amongst other things - my Spag Bol. I told him I hadn’t cooked it since he left. But with orders to stay on the sofa, it was Dan who cooked Spag Bol that night. And it was perfect.

We spent the evening idly chatting and watching a bit of TV –with both of them ensuring I was fed, watered and immobile. When Barney - Dan’s cat who he had been missing so much – made an appearance, he curled up on Dan’s lap and wallowed in the attention.

The evening was perfect.

When I woke up in the early hours of the morning, it was on the sofa – covered in a duvet which Dan had covered me with when I must have drifted off to sleep.

Christmas day began with the arrival of Rob at 5.30 am. We exchanged presents and wished each other a Merry Christmas before he left to start work at 6.15. I was glad I got the chance to see him on Christmas Morning itself, rather than the intended Christmas Eve, which was cancelled at the last minute. We may have made a little bit of noise downstairs, cluttering around with gift boxes and paper, because shortly after he left, Dan emerged from the bedroom.

There was no exchanging of presents for a few hours because all of my presents for them were at my Mum’s house – which had been Dan’s wish. He wanted the whole family to be together and open them together. By 10 o clock my step-dad had arrived in the car and off we set to pick up Dan’s Dad, who is always (and always will be) a part of our Christmas celebrations.

I don’t think I have ever seen so many presents in my life. There were six of us seated around the front room, with the entire middle space overflowing with them. There were some fantastic presents, but the one which got the most laughs was a gift which Dan bought for his Dad. ‘The Gift of Nothing.’ An empty bauble, if you like, with the words on the packaging reading:

Congratulations. You have received the gift of nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is the ultimate in minimalism. Less is more, more or less. Nothing is precious. Nothing is simple. Nothing is sacred. Open the pack and be enthralled when nothing happens. Allow nothing to flow through your mind and calm your soul. Savour the moment. Soon you’ll discover that nothing really is so much better than something.

I have new books to read, candles to light to fill my house with wonderful smells, bubbles to wallow in, a fluffy robe to wrap myself up in, perfume to spritz, a new handbag to carry, new clothes to wear, a gorgeous white gold cross hanging around my neck and a sturdy tripod for my camera. Spoiled rotten, I was.

When the drama of the present unwrapping had fizzled and died, and some of the people had dispersed to different rooms in the house, I looked across at Dan. “Shall we turn the telly up?” I asked him. (Up until that point, the telly had been on mute, but flickering in the background.) “No,” he said. “The only thing I want to hear is the voices.” And so we sat there, listening to Mum in the kitchen sorting out her sprouts, and her exchanges with my step-dad. We listened to my step-dad on the phone to his children and grand children. We listened to nothing but a family coming together for a special day, with no interruptions.

Christmas dinner was lovely – but my Mum is the best cook in the world, you know, so I didn’t expect anything other than amazing. I felt bad I couldn’t help this year – especially as Mum is really in pain most of the time now, due to her recent spinal nerve burning procedure not working.

Christmas Dinner, we’ve decided, will be at my place next year, for the first time ever. I’m happy and sad about it all at once. Christmas is about traditions but I suppose there must come a time when we have to adapt them…and that time has come. Undoubtedly, Mum will be in my kitchen next year and making stock for the gravy and doing all of the special things that only Mum’s can do, because I know I couldn’t do it without her. But it’s my time to worry about the build up and the aftermath and let her have a well deserved rest.

There was only one thing missing from Christmas this year.

My brother.

This is the first time he hasn’t been a part of it, and I’m still not entirely sure why he decided to not come. Perhaps it has something to do with times changing, and with us having different expectations or desires. I may never know. But when we left my Mum’s house that evening, we left all of his presents on the side and his Christmas Dinner in the fridge. I do hope that whatever he chose to do, he was happy.

So now it is Boxing Day morning, and I’m sitting here feeling eternally grateful for having such a wonderful and loving family. And I keep looking at the photograph which Tallis gave me for Christmas – a lovely black and white picture of the two of them together – and re-reading the words Dan wrote on his Christmas card:

“You’re an idiot for breaking your foot. I hope it gets better soon.

I hope we get plenty of opportunities to spend time together next year. The freedom and independence is great…but I don’t want to lose my Mummy.

So… what more could I wish for in 2009?

I hope you all had, and are still having, a wonderful time. x