The symptoms of Christmas

 

Christmas is here and I have all the symptoms: glazed eyes, tight chest, stress dreams, a house full of Sellotape and unwrapped presents hidden under the spare blankets in the hot press.

 

My house is like a Christmas elf half-way house, stuffed with tubes of wrapping paper, cinnamon sticks and unfinished lists.

 

My bank card is worn thin and my credit card is about to be brought out.

 

If I could bear to look into the mirror I would spot a tiny amount of fear, right there, nestled in the back of my eye.

 

 

Fear of spending too much; fear of spending too little; of not having enough to give; of forgetting someone. Mostly the fear of seeing disappointment in the kids eyes come Christmas morn.

 

I have already begun the tradition of failing at Christmas expectations.

 

This year I decided to attempt to replicate a lovely memory I have of me and the eldest putting together a flat pack gingerbread house kit from Ikea.

 

This time the kit came from Dunnes and was more a shed than house, but no bother, we carried on icing and sticking regardless.

 

The build went badly. It fell apart five times before the youngest vented her frustration by eating a piece of the roof. We gave up and chucked the ugly remnants in the bin.

 

I have the panic and adrenaline of Christmas coursing through my veins.

 

 

And I love it.

 

I love the over-spending and the crowds and Mariah Carey, again, on the radio.

 

I love the tacky sparkly Christmas jumpers and rowdy Christmas parties, the over-indulgence of feasts and the awful jokes in crackers and Baileys too early in the day.

 

I like shoving a sacrificial tree into the back of my car and dragging needles through my house.

 

Because its winter, its cold outside, what else would we be doing if it weren’t for Christmas?

 

Daisy Wilson lives and works in West Cork surrounded by dairy farms and loud children.