Week 20: First Christmas

 

“Is there any room at the inn?” I ask my mum.

“What do you mean?” she replies.

I tell her that we came home to a leak in our study; the light fixture is dripping water and we’ve turned the electrics off as a precaution.

Consequently, we turn up to my mum’s a day early, Christmas Eve, with two beautiful boys and a boot-full of presents in tow. My mum invites us into our stable family home and ushers us through to the living room.

It is Kit’s bedtime, but there are a few jobs that need doing before he goes to bed. A carrot has to be left for the reindeer and a Pale Ale left for Santa. (I was thinking Santa could do with a Mighty Meteor from Dominos and a profiterole pudding from M&S, but Harriet said Santa shouldn’t be so greedy). Kit then climbs the stairs and is wrapped into his bed. Good night, little one, see you at Christmas.

Jude is downstairs watching The Bake Off with his mum and grandma, whilst his dad reads his book. The presents are then brought down and put under the Christmas tree. Stockings are arranged on the fireplace: Kit’s name on one; Jude’s on the other. The stage is set for Christmas, we stagehands Exit stage bed, and ready ourselves for Jude’s first Christmas production.

My phone goes off at 1am in the morning. Bewildered, I think it’s time to get up. It isn’t: it’s one o’clock in the morning. Who’s ringing at this time? It’s our neighbours. Our burglar alarm is going off. It isn’t Santa that’s triggered it; it’s me switching off the electrics and setting off the back-up battery. (I didn’t know any of this at the time. My father-in-law told me in the morning. I just wanted to sound more electrically savvy.) So I’m in the car, up the A5, to check the alarm. Our neighbours won’t be pleased. Those with young children will be up in a few hours and we’ve ensured they’ll have even less sleep. Christmas is about forgiveness though, turning the other cheek, a time for burying the hatchet. I’m sure the neighbours will bury the hatchet – just after they’ve killed me to dispose of the murder weapon.

I return home at 2.30. Kit cries out in the next room for his mum. Harriet brings him into our room. His crying wakes Jude. Soon, it’s going to be 3 o’clock and both little ones will be crying. Happy Christmas to one and all. Only a miracle happens. Kit is pacified and volunteers to return to his bed. Jude finds his thumb and sends himself back to sleep. ‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even two little boys.

Harriet wakes with Jude just before seven. We gather Kit and my mum and make our way down the stairs. Jude is mesmerized by the Christmas lights, and Kit by the presents under the tree. Stockings are opened: Kit on his own; Jude with assistance. We break for breakfast and then return for the business of unwrapping. With each present, Kit says “For me!” with complete confidence. We tell him that this isn’t his birthday, that other people get presents too. His eyes seem to say, “And they say Christmas is magical? Surely, birthdays our better.” His mood changes with one present though.

***

Two months earlier, we’re at Santa’s Grotto. We know Kit is going to be asked what he would like for Christmas. We ask Kit what he would like. Kit isn’t forthcoming. We have bought Kit some Duplo. So we prompt Kit to tell Santa he would like some Duplo.

Santa asks: “What would you like this Christmas?”  

Kit replies: “I want some Duplo.”

Santa looks at both of us for confirmation. We nod our head as if to say, “Our wages can stretch to that.”

Santa replies, “If you’re a good little boy, then I’m sure I can bring you some Duplo.”

***

Kit is unwrapping the present. A Duplo jungle box is uncovered. He looks at in amazement, registering what this all means. His eyes then turn away from the box towards us. The words he speaks crystalise childhood belief in folklore and tradition.

“He came!”

There is wonder in those two words. With this short sentence, Kit has put on the sorting hat and been inducted into the house of Christmas. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it. In believing, Kit has found it. It is in these moments that we know why we had children.

All of the presents are unwrapped. Jude is content, Kit is happy, my mum has her two grandsons and we’re not in a house with a leak. Nothing could be better. The wrapping paper is bagged for recycling. The Kit is bagged for bed. And The Jude is swaddled for a nap. All is quiet in the house. I read my book Benjamin Myers’ The Perfect Golden Circle and am transported to the Wiltshire countryside. My lucid dream ends when the oven pings and Kit is brought downstairs.

It's now food glorious food. Not hot jelly and custard as referenced in my favourite musical Oliver. But turkey, potatoes, green beans, carrots, stuffing, pigs in blanket, brussels sprouts and gravy. Jude watches on, salivating. Is he salivating because he is entering the teething stage? Or is it at the thought of next year’s Christmas dinner, where he can get his baby teeth around the victuals? I imagine it’s the latter.

Afternoon now and we settle down for some Donaldson. This year it’s The Smeds and The Smoos. Julia Donaldson’s sci-fi take on Romeo and Juliet. In our household Donaldson is lauded with the laurel of laureate. We read her every day. At an age where Kit asks for a book to be read multiple times, we don’t mind reading her. Unlike other children’s writers, she knows her metre, the syllables slide off the tongue and the rhymes are organic, not fertilized with shoehorns.

My brother and his girlfriend Zoe then come round. “I want my presents,” Kit cries. We remind him of his manners; he adjusts, “I would like my presents.” A few months ago we really worried about his speech, now he is outmaneuvering us. My brother has bought him a robot that involves batteries. The thing is he’s forgot to buy batteries. A Generation Alpha toy, but an age-old Christmas problem. Kit takes my hand and we go to the cornershop.

Strictly is on now. My mum and Harriet watch. Kit plays with his toys. Kieran and Zoe dance with Jude. I unbutton my top trouser button and browse higher waisted jeans online. With the winner announced and our household disappointed (George should have won), we turn off the television. Kit is falling asleep on his potty so time is called on his Christmas day.

I take him to bed and kiss him good night. I tell him that I love him. It is the first thing I tell him in the morning; it’s the last thing he hears at night. It opens his day; it closes his day. He has heard that sentence more than any other sentence. He repeats back phrases now: “No way, Jose,” “No pain, no gain”, “Don’t mention the war!” but he doesn’t repeat back the words every parent wants to hear. It will be poetic that he says it now. Today is a day for good will to all, of keeping your family close, of love to your fellow man and woman.

“See you soon, Daddy.”

“I love you, Kit.”

“Go away, Daddy.”

Probably a more apt response given family fallouts at Christmas.

I go downstairs and we play a board game together. We congratulate each other on one another’s answers and ridicule each other on one another’s answers. Jude sleeps on his chair, the youngest member in our family behaving like the oldest. My mum’s feeling tired too. We call an end to the games, pack up the frivolity and wave goodbye to Kieran and Zoe.

With my mum in bed, I sit next to Harriet whilst she feeds Jude. I’m trying to read my book but my eyes can’t stay open and my book ends up on the floor. I try again but my eyes can’t stay open and my book ends up on the floor. After a one o'clock start, my body is telling me I’ve had my fill of Christmas for one year. I kiss Jude and his mum goodnight.

In bed my conscious scrolls through the scenes of the day, alighting on a final picture of two boys sat on the sofa, smiling together. I fall asleep smiling.