Christmas Memories

When I was four, Bill, the bachelor who lived with his aunt next door, told me, there’s no such thing as Father Christmas. No! I shouted and ran home to my parents. Mummy, Daddy, Bill said there’s no such thing as Father Christmas. Go to your room, they said – and I did. There, beside my bed stood a shiny red tricycle, something I’d hoped for but dared not expect. That night, I may have been delighted with my tricycle, but I lost my childhood innocent belief in Father Christmas.

When I was eight, my father gave me a magician’s set, complete with magic wand and a box full of tricks. My father was a magician, entertaining at local events. I was my father’s daughter.

When I was ten, my auntie gave me some red poppet beads and a little white handbag. The child was changing, starting the transition from childhood to adult. I still need only close my eyes to bring back the reality of those poppet beads.

When I was sixteen, my boyfriend took me out to a restaurant for my first adult dinner, and promised his undying love, before he left town, never to be seen again.

When I was seventeen, my brother gave a volume of poems, ‘Station Life in New Zealand.’ Someone had noticed I’d grown up, was interested in more than daily life and swimming. My love for my brother soared.

When I was nineteen, my father gave me a pearl necklace, a single pearl tucked within a lucky horseshoe. Did this mean he didn’t mind the lower necklines I was starting to wear.

When I was twenty-one, my new fiance, now husband, gave me a dressing table set – brush and mirror. I had never owned such a treasure before. My love was cemented.

When I was twenty-two, my husband’s grandmother died on Christmas Day. Both my grandparents had died when I was too young to remember. Now, married just a few months, I finally had a grandmother and she let me down.

When I was twenty-eight, I held my nine month old son in my arms, and finally knew what Christmas was about.

When I was forty, I declared my everlasting belief in Father Christmas to my class of eleven and twelve year olds.

When I was forty-five, I offered Christmas guests a gin, only to be told by my son that sorry mum, that bottle is full of water. No it isn’t I said, look, the contents are still up to the line I’d drawn to ensure he hadn’t helped himself to teenage supplies. He and his friend laughed. Sorry Mum, we noticed the line, and filled the bottle up to the line with water after the party. Parental innocence vanished.

When I was fifty-eight, my son, unemployed and struggling with life, gave me a book of Sudoku puzzles.

When I was fifty-nine, my son, recently diagnosed with mental health problems, had taken his toll on my Christmas enthusiasm.

Now I am sixty, Christmas means love, acceptance, a son who has turned his life around. This Christmas I have the best gift of all, a son who has found his way through the darkness and can now take his place in the world.

I still believe in Father Christmas.