I love my perfectly perfect pastel themed Christmas tree.
With soft lighting- you know, the glowey yellowey kind.
Carefully chosen tree trinkets hang at equidistant intervals, the pale pink is never next to a pale gold, is never next to a pale silver.
You feel me?
Yup, I’m basically Monica Geller come December 1st.
This has become a problem since having the kiddliwinks.
I want to be the Mum that lets them decorate the tree.
Honestly I do.
That Mum that endorses excessive use of Tinsel inbetween the homemade Santa hat and snowman masterpieces a la nursery school.
But I love my pastel hew.
I love clearing away the family photo frames on the top of the mantel piece and selecting which of my over-priced, over-sized wreathey long foliagey things should take pride of place that year.
I want to be the Mum who, as Sarah of Unmumsey famously put it, shouts: “The theme is Christmas!”
And it is.
-In the toy room, behind a nice big closed door.
I have learnt that Christmas is allowed to throw up its sickeningly tacky, heart wrenching sentimentality in this room.
We used to go over to ‘Granny’s’ as the girls came to call her, and Christmas-up her living room every year.
We loved it.
I think she loved it too.
Our toy room now has Granny’s tree in pride of place.
And on this tree goes all of the homemade offerings that have been painstakingly crafted, not at home, over the years.
Scraps of paper with stubby bits of cotton wool hanging on for dear life are shoved into the centre of the tree with all the precision and delicacy of a hammer-throw.
Constrictor style tinsel sucks the life blood from this psychedelic fire hazard, with baubles that spell out Harrods 2010 (how posh!) stick men Santas and too many clashing baubles for my brain to process:
Shiny Red next to sparkly red next to cracked red under red tinsel with some of that purple, foiley, whispy stuff statically-stuck to every.bloody.relic.
Lines and lines of coloured lights, some even in the shape of trees, struggle to shine through the offensive layers – wrapping Granny’s tree all up in a firefighter’s nightmare.
I’ve grown to love letting the kids loose in this room.
Mostly because I can close the door on it.
But occasionally I gaze at it when the kids are in bed and think ‘this is what Christmas means to them.’
Colour, chaos, and no equidistance.
How it should be?
Unattainable ‘Magazine-shoot’ Christmas.
It doesn’t exist.
It’s happiness. It’s noise. It’s finding the green triangles have all been eaten when it’s finally your turn at the quality street.
It’s squeals of delight as hoards of Poundland tat slowly take over the lounge.
It’s cheap crackers and shoddy jokes. It’s queens speech and Slade.
It’s Merry December to us, the grow-ups: the overworked, knackered elves of Christmas.