Countdown to Christmas
When a colleague changed the radio station to Heart Christmas on Tuesday 14th November, I stood up and, with uncharacteristic assertion, said.
“No, don’t be ridiculous.”
It felt good to put my foot down. Unfortunately, I was overruled and, having heard “Stop the Cavalry” twice before lunch, tempted to put my coat on, walk out of the fire exit and just keep on walking.
My Bah Humbug approach, however, was a touch hypocritical. Since becoming parents, we (Louise) have started ramping up the Christmas hype machine early and the weekend saw wall-to-wall festive activities. On Friday morning, the boys burst into our bedroom, shouting, and within approximately 12 seconds, Joshua had located the advent calendars I had hidden behind an armchair.
“They were meant to be a surprise for later,” I said glumly as he stuffed a chocolate into his face and Jacob started tearing numerous windows open.
“What are you doing, Jacob? It’s one day at a time. You know this.”
“No, I don’t!” he shouted, then had the audacity to shove a second chocolate into his mouth before starting to cry.
Joshua was furious that Jacob had eaten more chocolates than him, Louise was unimpressed with my substandard advent calendar hiding place/lack of control over the situation and nobody spoke much over breakfast.
Getting the boys ready to leave the house in the morning has never been one of my favourite parts of parenting. With the winter addition of hats, gloves, and snoods, alongside Jacob’s recent habit of refusing to put shoes or a coat on whatever the weather, the last few weeks have been unbridled hell particularly challenging. As I bundled a barefooted Jacob into his car seat while assuring Louise I would “figure it out” I noticed it was 8.38 a.m., meaning all parking spots by the school would be gone so a slippery sprint and an apologetic smile to Joshua’s teacher would likely be required for the second time this week.
“Right, they’re in. Everything’s fine,” I shouted to Louise who was standing on the front doorstep. “See you tonight.”
“What do you mean tonight? I need the car.”
“Huh? I told you I need the car for work today?”
“Andy!”
I meekly apologized, pushed the electric windows up and drove away, heart pounding, not looking back.
I dropped Joshua off with seconds to spare and gladly there didn’t appear to be any visible judgment from Jacob’s preschool worker when I handed over my son and his footwear separately.
“Have you got his water bottle though?”
Obviously, I did not. Water bottles are killing me. It never used to be like this, did it? Between the ages of 4-11, I’m fairly sure the only liquid to pass my lips was Ribena and I’ve turned out just fine (depending on who you ask.)
With the morning chaos over for another day, I sat down in the car and sighed loudly, ready to move into the easier part of my day: several face-to-face appointments with High-Risk criminals in Bradford.
After completing a home visit, I received a series of texts in which Louise expressed her thoughts on my poor communication skills re. the car. In fairness, she communicated her point very clearly indeed.
Fortunately, after work, Louise and I had no choice but to put our differences behind us – or, at least, do a good impression of getting along – because Jacob’s preschool was holding an open evening for parents to see their Christmas decorations.
“Sorry about my poor communication skills,” I mumbled as we were in the queue.
“It’s fine,” she said, before noticing my furiously rubbing my hands together. “Do you want my gloves?”
“Yes, please.”
Taking gloves from your wife’s hands is not a great look but, in my defence, I have permanently freezing fingers from November to February and Louise is an unusually warm person. Besides, it felt like an olive branch.
It was a lovely event; the preschool had transformed, very effectively, into the North Pole, and Jacob proudly showed us around before we were fed mince pies and hot chocolate. When we were leaving, though, Joshua turned and dashed back into the building. I went after him, but there were people everywhere, and he moves quickly these days.
“Joshua!” I shouted. “Where are you?”
Not for the first time, I became the dad who is fake-smiling, pace-walking and calling their child’s name at a family event. After getting tangled up in some tinsel, I finally found him, hiding behind a reindeer, giggling. Feeling self-conscious, I pretended I’d been in on the joke and laughed, perhaps, too loudly.
We met Louise and Jacob in the car park.
“Why are you only wearing one glove, Andy?”
“Oh, for f…”
On Saturday morning, I took the boys to a Christmas forest school in Otley. It was Baltic but fortunately, after some strong persuasion, Jacob allowed me to put his coat and shoes on, and they loved it. After examining a frozen pond and playing a round of hide-and-seek, the showstopper was a woodland arrival from Father Christmas. Jacob was mesmerized but it is becoming increasingly difficult to pull the wool over Joshua’s eyes.
“You’re not the real Santa,” Joshua said. “You’re just Russell, that man we saw earlier.”
Following this, we headed straight to the school Christmas fair which Louise had been helping to set up. At the autumn edition, I was trusted with a snacks stall but, following alleged murmurings that my onion bhajis were overpriced, I was subject to a sideways move, co-facilitating a dice-throwing game. We did okay but, truth be told, found ourselves blown out of the water by the stand next to us; a car racing game hosted enthusiastically by another dad, offering superior prizes. Still, Louise’s sausage rolls sold out, Joshua won a fluffy caterpillar on the tombola, and, during my break, I located a stand selling Brew Dog. All in all, a success.
It had been a busy morning so I felt we had sufficient credit to spend the afternoon watching films (staring at our phones) and opening the Baileys. I should be so lucky. Louise disagreed and we went to watch the Christmas lights being turned on in Horsforth.
“Hang on, didn’t we leave early last year because it was freezing and too busy?” I asked as we pulled up outside Morrisons.
Twenty minutes later, we were returning to the car. Joshua was saying he couldn’t feel his feet and Jacob was shouting because the flashing tat we had bought for him had stopped flashing.
“Yes, Andy. Yes, we did.”
I live in the hope that next year we might see some lights being turned on.
By the time we’d put the boys to bed, we were shattered with Louise claiming she was “too tired” to enjoy our takeaway curry. Still, there was no let-up because she had billed Sunday as “Christmas Tree Day” for the boys (that's not a thing, is it?) For this to work, we needed to assemble a large, plastic tree in our living room which, really, has no space for such things, then untangle and hang up fairy lights around the house. What should have been a joyous activity was carried out in near silence aside from an occasional sigh or tut. I tried to lift the mood.
“Ok, Google. Play Christmas music.”
The opening trumpet to “Stop the Cavalry” started.
Ah, the festive season…
*Louise's glove remains missing.
