The Christmas Gift

A woolly genius from Liverpool once asked, So this is Christmas, and what have you done? For the most part, both Carla and I have been reliving a lost magic that is eroded with age.

The build up to December 25th is without doubt more significant now with Amelie. When we pulled out the decorations, there was no sudden realisation that 12 months had passed, like it did last year (and was noted in a previous entry). Instead, there was a kernel of excitement within our stomachs. The air had changed around us, the room a little brighter (aided by the hundred of tiny fairy lights). The miserable and bleak winter that raced before the window was not so terrible – it had become endearing, and appropriate. This is the impact a child has on an adult during this season. Carla and I abandoned maturity in favour of innocence, and for nearly a month relived what it was like to be young again.

The day itself was short-lived. We awoke in the morning and I scouted the living room to see if Father Christmas had been. The presents had been positioned, and this year, there were no dirty footprints in the carpet, just the mix of stale milk and the sickly sweet smell of digested cookies. We brought Amelie down, and there she saw her present, a large Playhouse, erected in the corner of the room, complete with indoor lighting. It was a squeeze, but the house warming party was a success. There more presents, though the task of ripping off the wrapping paper seemed the most exciting part for Amelie, rather than what lay within.

As if measuring the success of her well-mannered year (maybe that’s stretching it a little), Father Christmas broke the tradition of “staying undercover” to surprise Amelie with an impromptu visit, just like he did the previous year. I of course had to see to the reindeers and make sure they were comfortable so missed out again on seeing the two together, but from what Carla told me once he left, Amelie wasn’t afraid and seemed happy to see him.

A few hours later the grandparents arrived with Carla’s brother, my uncle and auntie. More presents were delivered and exchanged, and under a sea of wrapping paper and fluffy toys, Amelie was cordial to all, and animated at the flurry of attention thrown at her. Her granddad had his cans of John Smiths (the whiff of alcoholic breath seeming to repel Amelie), everyone else had tea or coffee. Bacon sandwiches were made, and everyone was offered a special biscuit that Carla and Amelie had baked the previous day, another tradition in its infancy.

Dinner was ham on the bone (its taste described later my Carla as synthetic), roast potato and mashed potato (it seems Carla cannot settle on one type of potato at Christmas), sprouts with lardons, long stem broccoli and thick gravy. Uncle Mark, who was spending dinner with us due to his wife being over in Ireland visiting her family, supplied the desert, a rich Thornton’s Toffee cake. Amelie had a smaller portion, and seemed to enjoy the sprouts and “nice cake”. We watched the Gruffalo and Mark spent some time in Casa Amelie while we caught our breath.

Once Amelie was safely tucked up in bed, there was a sense that the magic was over for another year, and that the practicalities of life were looming only a few hours away. Like with most things, sometimes the anticipation of an event is better than the reality, but this year, there was a genuine feel that Carla and I had recaptured a misplaced pleasure that only the young experience at Christmas. And I guess this was Amelie’s gift for us, to be, if only for a moment, young again and without worry. Thank you, Amelie.