The Unmumsy Mum Diary

by The Unmumsy Mum

  I wanted to reply in shouty capitals: ‘CHRISTMAS! THE FUCKING THEME IS CHRISTMAS!’ but I didn’t, because it was obvious I had stumbled into a zone that wasn’t safe for me – like the Helmand of mum chat – so I muttered, ‘Monochrome, my arse,’ and shut down the browser. What the bloody hell is a monochrome Christmas? OK, I know what monochrome is – everything is black, white and grey, or varying tones of just one colour – but that’s not Christmas, is it? Is it? Christmas isn’t supposed to be classy, right?

  Growing up, I always thought our Christmas tree looked magical. Having reviewed old photo albums, I can now see that it was, in fact, one hundred per cent naff, but I can vividly remember standing and looking at the lights with a happy, Christmassy glow in my heart. Our Christmases were bright, colourful and chaotic and brought together a hodgepodge of decorations bought from random places or handmade by me and my sister over the years. It was tat in the most endearing sense of the term. Sadly, an old multi-pack of baubles from BHS (RIP) and some paper chains across the ceiling just doesn’t seem to cut it any more.

  Granted, this ‘theme’ conversation was just one thread. But over the course of a few days I have been drip-fed further images of impressive festive creations and suggestions for crafty activities, such as Christmas origami with toddlers – origami with toddlers. I’ll let that sink in. One page listed a ‘mums’ festive checklist’ of things we should be doing to make the yuletide perfect, and I wasn’t sure which aspect of this I was most pissed off about: the insinuation that dads are somehow incapable of helping with any Christmas prep (is there no dads’ checklist?) or the implication that not making a gingerbread house with intricate sweetie detail somehow makes Christmas imperfect.

  These days, before December even arrives you’re supposed to join in with trampling over people in the shops on Black Friday as you panic-buy presents you don’t really need but feel you ought to have because of the colossal savings off the list price they definitely didn’t hike up the week before.

  Then you have to think about December 1st. What are you doing for advent? Some people are doing book advents, some people are doing craft advents, some people are giving away a clue as to where the chocolate is hidden each day – if life wasn’t already busy enough, you can now get up ten minutes earlier to facilitate a daily treasure hunt. I’m not signed up to Pinterest, but I’m regularly told it’s the go-to place if you want to feel inadequate, so I can only assume that, by Pinterest standards, I have ruined Christmas by not hand-sewing the boys’ advent calendars out of sheep’s wool flown in from Nazareth. And don’t forget to get the elf down from the shelf and make him do cheeky things every day, because those cheeky scenes must be photographed and uploaded to social media. What do you mean, you haven’t got an elf?

  This year, the boys have shop-bought advent calendars again, and they’re chuffed to pieces. We do have an elf – ‘Eddie’ – because we’ve realised that Eddie’s good-behaviour bargaining power is colossal, but he doesn’t write messages in Cheerios, cosy up to Barbie or go fishing in the kitchen sink, because I haven’t got the time. He basically moves around the shelf, and the kids think that’s amazing enough. Sometimes, he doesn’t even move from one day to the next because he’s tired. I know the feeling, Eddie.

  I suppose my point is that Christmas shouldn’t be all about the showy stuff. Unless, of course, you want it to be. If you want to pay for a personalised letter from Father Christmas and arrange a visit to a top-notch grotto with a Santa so convincing he must have been through Santa Factor boot camp and Judges’ Houses to secure the role, then do it. If you’re a foodie and derive pleasure from feeding your Christmas cake with brandy and constructing that intricate house out of gingerbread and sweeties, then knock yourself out. You need not defend these actions if they mean something to you.

  But don’t do these things because you feel like you ought to, or worse, because you’re worried your yuletide Instagram feed looks a bit shit. So what if Derek from the garden centre’s black moustache is visible over his Santa beard in the picture and the gift he’s given your son is a plastic toy for the bath, when you don’t even have a bath (true story). Kids are brilliant. Kids think Santa knew you didn’t have a bath but bought the toy for their outside water tray.

  Kids don’t get to Christmas Eve and think Christmas is wrecked because there isn’t a personalised ceramic plate for the mince pie and carrot, or because they haven’t got new pyjamas in their ‘Christmas Eve box’. They don’t wake up in a cold sweat because you forgot to buy them glittery reindeer food to sprinkle on the front door step. They certainly don’t look at the tree and think, Oh dear, Mother, what a clash of colours!

  For me, the build-up to Christmas will always be about leafing through the Argos catalogue, putting up the tree with no regard for classiness, stocking up on good food and drink, watching Home Alone and dancing around the living room to Shakin’ Stevens.

  That’s Christmas to me. I bloody love it.

  After last year’s Christmassy rant, I had some negative comments from people telling me I should think twice before having a pop at parents who ‘make an effort’ (because I don’t make any effort, obviously). But they missed my point.

  My point is that we should all take a moment (it seems I need this moment once every year) to shake off the unnecessary pressure to do it all and refocus on what’s important. What’s important is different for each of us. It’s whatever stuff we believe to be important. We shouldn’t get swept up in doing shit that means nothing to us or worry about keeping up with The Clauses on social media.

  Besides, it would be a shame to put Derek out of business.

  Thursday 15th

  What is the appropriate level of birds-and-bees chat to have with a four-year-old? I never expected this topic to crop up quite so early. Then again, I never expected to have a child who questions everything – I should have known it was only a matter of time before he started pondering the inevitable. A few months back, he first queried how babies get into mummies’ tummies and, at the time, I gave him some half-baked and slightly panicked explanation about how mummies have an egg and daddies have a ‘tadpole’, and then I was deliberately vague about how they ‘combine’ to make a little person. I had hoped it would tide us over for another few years, but this morning’s conversation as we walked to school showed me I had underestimated Henry’s curiosity about biology.

  Henry:

  I know where babies come from!

  Me:

  [In my head: Oh God] Errr, OK. What is it that you know?

  Henry:

  Well, you have eggs, don’t you, Mum?

  Me:

  Yes, that’s right! I do have eggs.

  Henry:

  The eggs come from Daddy’s balls. From HIS SACK.

  Me:

  [looking around to make sure no other parents are witnessing this chat about Daddy’s sack] No need to shout, poppet. That’s not quite how it happens, anyway. The eggs are already inside of Mummy.

  Henry:

  No, that’s not right! You said there are tablets that swim into your tummy. The eggs from Daddy’s sack become tablets, like when the Very Hungry Caterpillar became a butterfly. Tablets are like little frogs and the little frogs come from the eggs in Daddy’s sack.

  Me:

  [desperately trying to think of how to put this right] No, I said Daddy has little tadpoles. He doesn’t actually have tadpoles, he has something called sperm which look like tadpoles under a microscope. They’re tiny. They join with Mummy’s egg and make a baby.

  Henry:

  [face of confusion] Have you seen them under a microscope? Are they green?

  Me:

  No, I haven’t seen Daddy’s sperm under a microscope. They’re not green. Oh, look, Charlie’s over there! Shall we catch up with him? Come on, let’s cross the road.

  Henry:

  OK. How do they get out?

  Me:

  How do what get out?

  Henry:


  The baby frogs in his balls!

  Me:

  Listen, I don’t think you’ve quite understood it yet, but I can explain it properly later. I will get a book out of the library about how mummies and daddies make babies, how about that?

  Henry:

  I’m going to ask Miss Cook about it. She’ll know … CHARLIE!

  Should I now be expecting ‘a word’ at home-time about how Henry is the youngest ever schoolchild they’ve had to explain ejaculation to after incessant questioning? And what the hell are they going to think I’ve been teaching him about frogs and ball sacks?

  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: where is the manual? Almost five years in, and I swear to God I still need an instruction leaflet.

  Sunday 25th

  IT’S CHRISTMAS!!! Actually, Christmas is already (almost) over and I am now sitting in bed (we’re staying at my in-laws’), typing the things that have happened today into my phone’s notes before I forget them. I failed to provide any diary updates in the immediate run-up to the big day because I was too busy flailing around being not-very-useful. I had to nip to the shops THREE TIMES for the basics I’d forgotten, such as Sellotape and emergency cards. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who reactively replies to cards that unexpectedly come through the door from people you know but just didn’t think you were on a cards-exchanging level with? All very awkward.) My plan had been to write something philosophical on Christmas Eve about my impending Christmas Day excitement, but James and I got slightly too much into the Christmas spirit after the kids were in bed. We drank a bottle of champagne, which, in itself, is a reasonable way to accompany present-wrapping. But the fact that we followed it up with a bottle of cava meant that we were pissed as farts when we did the final bits of Christmas prep. By the time it came to wrapping Jude’s Sylvanian Family house I was basically just throwing paper at it. That said, even on a good day, we’ve never been ones for neatly wrapping gifts with hand-printed brown paper and string – we’re definitely more of a ‘three for two rolls from Wilko’ family.

  We were so ‘merry’ I made James pay to download Love Actually (even though we’ve got the DVD) and then we hardly watched it because we had sex in the living room. Sorry, Dad, if you’re reading this – we’ve got to December without me writing anything I don’t want you to see, but, as they say in the film-we-weren’t-watching, it’s Christmas and at Christmas you tell the truth.

  Needless to say, when I woke up this morning I was a wee bit hungover and, when I couldn’t find any painkillers to take the edge off before the boisterous present-unwrapping commenced, I resorted to swigging Calpol out of the bottle – which is not exactly how I imagined Christmas Day starting. I’m fairly sure ‘stock up on children’s paracetamol so you can glug it after intoxication’ didn’t make that ‘mums’ festive checklist’ I was talking about, but I don’t know for sure, as I stopped reading after the paragraph about saving lemon peel for scented table centrepieces.

  Luckily, the headache was short-lived and our Christmas Day has been a success. We spent the morning overseeing the present exchange, and the look on Jude’s face when he realised Father Christmas had brought him his most-longed-for possession of all time – Postman Pat’s van – was one I wish I had captured on camera. Unfortunately, the camera was still charging at this point and my phone was low on battery. I know, this would never happen to Ruth – I bet Ruth’s camera has some kind of mega-charge pack that she remembers to plug in a full week before the event.

  Initially, James and I were absolutely shitting ourselves when Henry, having discussed his Christmas list several times, took one look at his presents and said, ‘YES! I can’t wait to open Tracy Island!’ which was not one of the items on his list. Arghhhhh! He subsequently explained that he hadn’t added Tracy Island to the physical letter to Father Christmas but had ‘whispered it to Father Christmas from his bed’, which was really fucking helpful. Despite the absence of Tracy Island (‘Perhaps he didn’t hear your whisper, sweetheart. Next time, we’ll add it to the proper list, shall we?’), both boys were chuffed with everything they opened and gave us cuddles and thank-yous, which made my heart melt.

  After we’d all got changed into our new Christmas clobber and I’d spritzed myself with the Chloé perfume I get every year (it’s the only scent I like, but it’s too expensive to just buy for myself in the absence of any occasion, so I essentially smell nice until it runs out and then have to wait until the next Christmas for some more), we loaded up the car and headed down to James’s brother’s house for Christmas dinner, which was all kinds of epic. My contribution was the cauliflower cheese, which I made using the following easy five-step recipe:

  Step 1 Go to the supermarket.

  Step 2 Buy three pre-prepared cauliflower cheese in trays. (Adjust amount of pre-prepared trays depending on the number of people you are catering for.)

  Step 3 At home, decant the cheesy-cauliflowery mixture from the plastic trays into 2 x ovenproof dishes and cover with cling film.

  Step 4 Hand over to whoever is cooking and advise that it should take thirty to thirty-five minutes in the oven.

  Step 5 Smile graciously over lunch when everybody compliments you on how delicious ‘your’ cauliflower cheese is.

  I did later ’fess up to having cheated, and nobody cared, once again reaffirming my belief that doing Christmas your way is the best way.

  After numerous desserts, chocolates we ‘couldn’t possibly eat’ but somehow found space for, some classic telly and lots of cups of tea (funnily enough, I didn’t much fancy the wine on offer, so I am feeling quite fresh now), we have made our way back to James’s mum and dad’s, where the boys are asleep and I am here, reflecting on what has been just my kind of Christmas Day.

  I don’t know why I always let myself get agitated about the pressure parents face during the festive build-up. I didn’t allow the pressure to win this year and the result was a lower expectation and, arguably, a correlating higher level of enjoyment. I must try and remember to read this back the next time I’m having pangs of guilt about neglecting to make a home-made fireplace garland out of foliage from the garden.

  Monday 26th

  Today is Boxing Day. Traditionally, it’s the day we’re still full of food and festive cheer from the previous day and when the risk of crashing out on the sofa in front of The Snowman prompts the family to head out for another walk before returning to vegetate some more. It’s a day when we feel no shame in snacking on leftover cold meats and cheeses followed by a handful of Celebrations, because it’s Boxing Day, another day with a name, which must mean it’s technically still Christmas. It’s a restful, contented type of day.

  It’s also the day my mum died.

  Fourteen years ago today, I sat on the stairs of the house I grew up in and cried with the weight of the realisation that my mum would never be coming home.

  Fourteen years is a long time. It’s almost, though not quite, half of my life. Boxing Day is undoubtedly easier now than it was in the years immediately after Mum died. Over a decade later, things feel different. I now function normally on this day of the year – I tuck in to those leftover meats and cheeses, and I play with the boys and their new presents. More often than not, it’s a nice day.

  But, for me, deep down, it will always be Mum’s day. Wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I will always find my mind transported back to the day I sat on those stairs feeling like my heart had been ripped out. I will always remember how, that night, I couldn’t sleep, so I got into bed with my dad, and we told each other that it would be OK – though neither of us believed it. I will always remember the small selection of presents lying unopened under the tree belonging to the family member who had been the centre of our Christmases all my life but would never be there again, not ever. And I will always remember how good we’d had it before Mum got poorly and how much she loved us, and I will vow once more to make sure the boys know how much I love them.

  I think she would have l
iked that.

  Saturday 31st

  So here it is! My final diary entry, on the last day of the year. I have just re-read my first entry from New Year’s Day and had a little chuckle to myself, mostly about the fact that I managed just the one half-hearted bash at fruit-and-veg blitzing. This one effort was an early attempt to prove James wrong in his assertion that the fruit-and-veg blender would be a waste of money for us, just like the time I asked him to buy me some dumbbell weights and then used them as door stops. Alas, despite best intentions, I’ve only used it to ‘blitz’ milk with ice cream and chocolate powder.

  I’m actually feeling a bit emotional about this diary coming to an end. That’s partly because I’ll miss writing it – though I must admit I won’t miss staying up until 2 a.m., frantically editing in my dressing gown while sitting among the wrappers of whatever cupboard snacks I’ve managed to get my hands on as I ponder whether or not to use brackets, which I am, by all accounts, over-fond of using (I LOVE BRACKETS). Having someone (or ones!) to share this year with has felt a bit like therapy and, naturally, the very last day of this year has got me feeling reflective about both the year’s good bits and its bad bits.

  We’ve battled biting, fussy eating, failed attempts at discipline, a school-gate crier and a range of morons who think it’s OK to say cruel things online. I have made some questionable underwear choices, forgotten about impending periods and wasted an astronomical amount of time browsing unnecessary shit on the internet. Just this morning, I found myself engrossed in a clickbait article about celebrities who are unrecognisable without make-up – I just can’t help myself.