Christmas. Ah.

‘Tis the season to be jolly. Falalala La…and yet, I already have a knot in my stomach, which hurts.

Christmas, when I was young, was hanging over the front verandah, seeing Santa and his sled pulled by reindeer flying in the sky. I saw him. I did.

Christmas was waking up earlier than early, rousing my brothers to open their stockings with me. Pouring out bed-fulls of Crazy Clark gifts Dad had bought the previous afternoon. Door knobs. Underwear. You know, Dad Presents.


Christmas was writing a note to Santa, begging him for proof of his existence. If he wasn’t real – the world as I knew it would unravel. Proof was the delivery of an elf. I set up a bed for the expected (hoped for) elf, and the next morning watched my world crumble down brick by brick when I saw not an elf, but a small, red, green and white teddy bear.

Christmas was crying – sobbing – as my dad told me that Santa was as real as you wanted him to be. And forgetting my lunch money on the front seat, my vision and mind was so obscured from crying.

Christmas was watching cousins unwrap stereos and walkmans and brothers unwrap cricket sets and dissolving after opening The Concise Oxford Dictionary and Thesaurus, followed by a faded tangerine and black one-piece sun-suit. Christmas was running to the bedroom crying, and spending the rest of the day guilty for Having Ruined Christmas because of my greed.

Christmas was spending weeks making handmade cushions – cross-stitched rabbits, patchwork Cornish stars. Christmas felt like it was over when the last gift had been given.

Christmas was loud family discussions, fuelled by wine and pudding dramas. It still is.

Christmas was heightened expectation, joy, excitement. Disappointment. It still is.


My inner child joins me at Christmas.

She was with me tonight, decorating the tree with Elka. We hung glass baubles filled with coloured feathers from a native potted tree. My inner child got goosebumps when Michael Crawford sang Oh Holy Night.

My inner child’s stomach knotted with disappointment when my mum told me Elka’s cubby was a family present – that was our present.

My inner child already feels sick with anticipation for all that Christmas brings. It’s only the 7th of December.

There’s no other day which brings out my inner child quite like Christmas.

Do you have an inner child? Does he/she creep out the night the Christmas tree is decorated?

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{linking with That Space In Between – talking about rituals at Christmas time}