I’ve been reading things about Christmas, and realised I have got it all wrong.
I do Christmas for me, the way I like it. And that’s mainly an updated version of what I grew up with. Which in most cases will have something to do with grandparents. I think you often skip a generation. (An online friend had finally managed to ‘get her Grandmother’s tree,’ after years of collecting old decorations from charity shops and jumble sales. And she was so happy.)
Except for us. Offspring, I mean. They have ‘always’ spent Christmas at home, which means it’s my way, or – if you like – my grandparents’ way. Mother-of-witch was never able host Christmas for them, and the other grandparents were not terribly Christmas-minded. (Basically they did what I asked them to do. Sort of.)
So now I believe Offspring mainly want their own version of my childhood Christmasses, as tweaked by me. It’s a bit like genetics. Where you come from. Where you’re going. Who got in the way.
But anyway, in the papers I have seen suggestions that when one’s children reach a respectable age, like eight, or 19, or worse, you can skip all this Christmas nonsense and do less, or nothing. Throw out the decorations. Not bother with the traditions you taught them.
And the children mind!
It’s obvious, really. If you only did Christmas for the children when they were small, I can’t see how you can suddenly say they are too old for what you’ve brought them up with.
If, like me, you didn’t do it for the children, then you keep on doing it for yourself. That way the children get it whether they want it or not. Because they can always opt out.
And if you never lied to them and told them Father Christmas is real, then you don’t have that little problem to wriggle out of either.
Oops, sorry. He is whatever you want him to be.
I mean, last week I even said to my builders, as we temporarily moved the dining table away from in front of the fireplace, that it was so Father Christmas wouldn’t bump into it on his descent. I’m sure they believed that I believe.