Well that's that then. Am I the only one who thinks "Thank God, it's over".
I was quite keen at the start but frankly I am just relieved that is it for another year. I try my best. I really do. But by God, it's an effort. I think I hide my occasional desperation quite well but as we left the 11 o'clock Christmas morning mass even the priest whispered in my ear as we left with the 5-year-old, 3-year-old, babe in arms, elderly father and blind mother tip tapping down the aisle with her white stick: "May God give you the strength to get through this day." Amen to that. I go into it with the best intentions. This year, I say to myself, this year I will make my own cranberry sauce, remember what it was exactly the children asked Santa for in their letters (mental note, don't forget the camera next year), and establish those traditions which my children will remember when they too are adults with children of their own. Those very special moments, that in 40 years time, my daughter will remember and ask herself "Why did my mother do that?".
It all started to go wrong really on Christmas Even when I spent 20 minutes storming round the house looking for the literary classic "The Night Before Christmas." I eventually found it under my 5-year-old son's bed but I do wonder whether my fury outweighed the cosy few minutes of festive domesticity under the duvet reading the damn thing. I can just imagine: "Yeah my brother and I had this bet each Christmas. We would hide this old book she was desperate to read to us and we'd see how long would it take her to say the "F" word when she couldn't find it. Dear old mum. Ofcourse she is in a home now for the criminally insane. She did love her Christmas though."