A Father Christmas

It must be marvellous to be a married male this time of year.

To sit comfortably in front of the abundance of summer sports as Christmas just ‘happens’ around you.

Never again shall you need to dart from store to store in a sea of prams, panicking over what you should buy for whom. No, no, no. Relax now. That is all a distant memory. 

Please, by all means, sit bewildered before the cricket match and watch in peripheral vision as your other half skips about in a blur spreading Christmas joy.

How nice to glance up from the playstation and notice that the gifts for your family and friends are neatly wrapped and nestled underneath the decorated tree.

In fact, would you like another Christmas cookie, dear?

Bar-flipping-humbug.

Oh, alright, let me just lay this on the table straight up – It’s pretty much all my fault. I created the monster of which I speak of. However, I stand not alone in this fight.

I do love Christmas. Adore it even. I am one of those ridiculous women who begins to decorate somewhere around early November, has a colour theme for each room and an Excel spread sheet detailing gifts, budgets, dinner menus and party invites. All of which are confirmed by October at the latest.

(I know, disgusting isn’t it?)

But please let me explain that I am not this person by choice. I am this person because I have never been in possession of a penis and apparently that is the specific equipment required to laze through the holly jolly festival that is Christmas.

It is an unconscious exchange that must occur during our sleep. Do we just unknowingly accept all festive control at some point because I can’t ever remember being asked to sign something?

I, Dee, do hereby agree to accept full season control, inclusive of entire responsibility of purchasing researched items for allocated Mother-In-Law… In fact, entire responsibility of all items relating to Christmas and its subsequent holiday season… except of course the end of season Christmas soccer boys weekend for which I will allow Soccer Hubby to have FULL CONTROL. And, on an unrelated topic, I agree to bring chilled beverages to said Hubby to avoid the unfortunate event of him having to wait for an ad break.

No, I’m pretty sure I would have remembered being swindled out of my lucidity by the male species. 

I would love nothing more than to sit back with my feet up and watch in excitement as my kids write letters to Santa and squeal with glee at anything that sparkles.

The problem is, while all this is happening, I’m in the kitchen honey roasting hams, simultaneously jotting on post-it notes what Disney princess is the latest favourite and noting what shirt size my brother-in-law wears.

As exciting as having a little family makes Christmas, the requirements of our sanity greatly increases in the process.

At any given point, I am able to verify the top 10 items on both daughter’s ever changing ‘I want’ lists, and which stores have them stocked the cheapest (including shipping costs). Whilst Soccer Hubby taps his chin in thought and asks what he should buy for his Father, I have already bought it and have it wrapped in a cupboard.

To put it simply, if they have forgotten someone, we have remembered them.

It is an exhausting experience that tests our skills as multi-taskers each and every year.

And it’s not just November through December that we partake in the delight - hands up all those of us who spent the June sales standing in toy store lay-by queues and swearing at computer screens as the online sale sites crashed mid purchase? 

Yes, I thought as much.

Although I will of course concede, as always, that this generalised opinion is not reflective of all male counterparts. Many times I have listened in awe as gal pals spill exciting details of romantically selected gifts that they found sitting under their tree. However, having now displayed that disclaimer, how many men in such a position have at some point uttered the words ‘what did we get my mother this year?’

(Be honest men, not ‘no I’m not looking at her boobs, I just like the colour of that shirt’ honest - real honest.)

It is just a typical stereotype that has unfolded under many-a-mistletoe.

In fact, I put this to you Santa Claus…. Mrs. Claus is the one who checks the Naughty and Nice list isn’t she?

Once a guy has locked in to monogamy, that pretty ring in the little blue box is the last gift he need ever buy. 

No point in denying it or attempting to fight the system. As The Beatles explained, just let it be.

It is just a fact that we must accept. At some point over Christmas, we will look over to their blank expression as they hand a package to their mother, and we will undoubtedly mouth the words ‘it’s a piiiicture fraaaaame’ to them over her shoulder. 

Not only that, we will do it all again next year.

So frazzled allies, let it be.

Let it be your idea for them to decorate the roof with 7000 Christmas lights.

Let it be them who you place in charge of untwining the hundreds of plastic ties around the children’s new toys.

Let it be them who you hand a hammer to and say ‘the new trampoline needs to be assembled…now.’

Let it be their credit card you use online.

Let it be a nice chilled glass of Moscato that the children leave out for Santa.

And, naturally, let it be a very pretty package that you purchase for yourself on their behalf.

Happy Shopping xx