The tree made its way up in mid-November. There was only one person in the house who needed any convincing to put it up early, and with an eight to one majority against him he never really stood a chance.
So it began to look a lot like Christmas several weeks ago chez Hogan, and the twinkling tree lights have kept us all a little cheerier through the bleak Level 5 days. Even the reluctant one has admitted it was a good call on the majority’s part.
It meant the countdown started a little earlier – to birthdays, to The Late Late Toy Show, to the opening of the Advent calendars, to the Christmas duvet covers going on the bed, and at the time of writing, to meeting the man in the red suit himself. Excitement has reached an all-time high and to be honest, I’m leading the charge.
“How many days now?” I’ve asked each morning as sleepy heads have wandered down the stairs to get ready for school.
They list them off remarkably accurately but with their eyes on the prize – the annual trip to see Santa is the big one. “I hope he won’t say I’m getting coal,” one child says with a worried look on his face. “It’s very hard being good all the time,” he sighs as though thoroughly exhausted by the efforts.
“Of course he won’t,” I offer in reassurance. “Santa knows how brilliant all the children around the world have been this year.”
“Well he brought coal to grandad one time and I don’t think grandad would be that bold,” he replies. I can appreciate his concerns – this is 2020 after all.
Touch of normal
I’ve never looked forward to our Santa visit more. A normal Christmas ritual in the year of the abnormal. Just like with the return of I’m a Celebrity and Strictly Come Dancing to our TV screens, changed but with a touch of normal, I’m clutching at the straws that remind me of how it all was. Escapism at its finest as we try to forget the pandemic outside the four walls.
There are few other normal rituals that will take place. My youngest child started school this year paving the way for last firsts and first lasts, only they won’t happen either.
The much-anticipated nativity show will not take place this year. A small thing in the grand scheme of things perhaps, but one so entwined in the Christmas rituals of a mother-of-many that I previously postponed a Caesarean section until that afternoon, explaining to my obstetrician that I couldn’t possible miss my son in his first onstage role as an angel. It was worth the delay, though the memory of my four year old sobbing afterwards because he had to stay in school while I went to the hospital to give birth hasn’t left me either.
Neither will the sixth-class carol service take place. A once-in-a-school-time occasion where the primary school seniors mark their final Christmas at primary school. I’m just hopeful that this sixth-class boy won’t have the same sad end to his time at school that the predecessors had.
There is no wandering into the school and seeing the wonderful Christmas artistic creations of the various classes across the building. Safety is naturally the priority, so emails from teachers with photos of the festive artwork that adorns the walls of the corridors are gratefully received and will have to suffice this year.
Different Christmas
It's beginning to feel a lot like a very different Christmas so I'm continuing to grasp at anything that resembles normality. I see echoes of similarity in my children, though perhaps they're less aware of it. The Late Late Toy show has been played on repeat. One is inspired to become a musician like Michael who sang alongside Dermot Kennedy. He's planning to let Santa know at our visit that a tweak to his original letter may now be required.
“It was just so good,” the middle child, our Christmas baby, says every time his younger brother presses play to watch the show again. “It makes it feel like Christmas,” he beams.
The youngest still hasn’t forgiven us for carrying him up the stairs to bed after he fell asleep on the couch mid-excitement. “I was supposed to stay up until it was Saturday,” he wails every time he sees it. There’s an air of familiarity about it all.
I’m not sure yet what Christmas will look like for us. The easing of restrictions doesn’t necessarily mean everyone will be comfortable meeting up. Plans are made to be broken may well prove the motto of 2020. But we have our Santa visit to look forward to. Some normality in the midst of abnormality.