Motherhood hasn’t come naturally to Daisy Leverington. Five years in and she remains wide-eyed, terrified and in awe of the little person she’s responsible for. This week, she’s ‘tits deep in tinsel’.
In the run up to Christmas, we have hit the mid-month plateau of constant ‘how many more sleeps?’, ‘I’m bored of writing cards, you do it’ and ‘it’s Christmas jumper/pyjama/dress/charity day and I need money/a new outfit/a lift somewhere’. We are at saturation point.
There’s so much glitter in the house we have taken on a constant Twilight-vampire sheen, and the my bank keeps sending me ‘U OK HON?’ emails. It’s getting a little wearing.
We’ve been talking a lot about the Christmas story since our daughter’s interest was piqued by her nativity play. I don’t remember ‘Narrator 29’ too well from the Bible, but we’ve decided that, like my own labour, there were probably a fair few people present for Jesus’s delivery too.
Mary, I feel you. We all lose count of how many people poke around down there when you’re in your 48th hour of fanny-first introductions.
“Those of us who don’t earn a huge wage are faced with decisions involving which is the cheapest Santa to visit and how to navigate a school Christmas fayre without spending the rent. The power of ‘no’ is lessened each time a little face realises that something is too expensive again.”
Our kid loved learning her lines and performing, and tells us with huge confidence about the Baby Jesus and his Big Birthday Bash. She’s very enamoured with the notion of so many people celebrating a single person’s birthday, and is currently in talks with her grandparents about how to roll it out for her own worldwide celebration when she turns six.
She’s taken it very literally too; we’re fairly sure she thinks her play was a minute-by-minute re-enactment of the actual virgin birth. She’s convinced there was a huge musical score, 18 wise men, a person dressed as a camel, 32 narrators and a kick-line of 50 five-year-olds caterwauling about a sad grey donkey.
I’m not one to burst a bubble unnecessarily, so for now that’s exactly what we believe too. And if anyone asks, babies come from ‘backstage’ and I’m not ready to explain it further than that for now, cheers.
It might sound like I’m getting a bit Scroogey, but it’s all OK. There won’t be many more hugely exciting Christmas days before she’s a sulky teenager and we’re throwing expensive gadgets towards her bedroom before locking ourselves downstairs for the duration.
We can still pick up presents at the pound shop and she’ll love them. It’s a busy and exciting time for her, so my husband and I are tits-deep in tinsel trying to keep up while she’s still little enough to believe in Santa.
The entire month of December has turned into a dizzy whoosh of carol concerts and discos, of little treats and pay-to-play events.
Those of us who don’t earn a huge wage are faced with decisions involving which is the cheapest Santa to visit and how to navigate a school Christmas fayre without spending the rent. The power of ‘no’ is lessened each time a little face realises that something is too expensive again. It’s a tricky month, and wanting to give your child the world and wanting to teach them moderation within it is tough.
“We’ve decided that, like my own labour, there were probably a fair few people present for Jesus’s delivery too. Mary, I feel you. We all lose count of how many people poke around down there when you’re in your 48th hour of fanny-first introductions.”
I reckon as long as we’re all in the same room on Christmas morning, and we’ve got enough food for dinner and daft games to play after lunch, we’re doing alright.
The most fun we’ve had this week has involved all three of us dancing around the kitchen to The Trolls soundtrack while doing the pots, so it doesn’t take expensive gifts to make our little family happy.
I’ve already explained that Santa can’t make enough Hatchimals for every boy and girl who wants one, (latest craze, stupidly priced, sold out everywhere) and she’s accepted that without a murmur.
Let’s just hope that she’s as happy with a three pack of tea towels and some aloe vera washing up liquid on Christmas morning. After all, according to her nativity, Jesus had to make do with 24 empty boxes and 5 songs about his own birth. Washing up sponges are an utter luxury in comparison.
‘Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store’. Dr Seuss.
Read all of Daisy’s Motherhood columns here.
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Daisy Leverington - Actor, mother, expert at winging it.