Accepting festive imperfection
Life is not just Christmas lunch, but a messy sink with dirty dishes afterwards
I have been quiet on here these past three weeks, not because I have been lost for words, but because I have too much to say. The world is… difficult right now. And I’m still shaping my thoughts on it. So in the meantime, I am sharing something I wrote last year. I stand by it all. The only difference is that it snowed last year, which hasn’t happened this festive period. But hopefully you can imagine the snow – the message is the same. And given so many of you weren’t subscribed then, I hope you will enjoy reading it now.
Before I had children, when I wanted them, but I did not have any, festive snow days were a particular kind of ache. A gentle throb of an ache, like fingers thawing after having held ice for too long. Because snow days meant photos of families, happy faces, bobble hats, sweet mittens, rosy cheeks. Snow days meant cosied-up loved ones, twinkling lights, a prelude to the Christmas shutdown, where homes pipe out festive songs and warming scents, like a scene from a Hallmark film. This time of year, when I wanted children, but did not have them, felt a little bit sad, not always, but sometimes.
Yet what we all rationally know, even if it’s hard to remember, is this: none of those photos are real. Or at least, they’re real for moments, slivers of time – the joys are there, they are undoubtable – but they are not the full picture. Nothing we see in snapshot ever is.
I thought about this today as I trudged through the remains of the recent snow. The morning after it fell, I had bundled the children out the door – Baby’s first snow day! My oldest all excited! – and as we ventured slowly towards nursery, it was indeed magical. Everywhere you looked, pristine powdery snow invited you to make those first footprints and feel that satisfying crunch when your shoe sinks in.
‘Quick, let’s do a photo!’ I said, always the photographer. ‘Quick, quick, let’s get together – smile! No, smile, come on – please, everybody, just look to the camera – seriously, come on, just once – smile!’
And so I became that person who takes those snowy family photos. The person who is then so charmed by her offspring that she feels compelled to share the shot with others. It was a special moment. I was happy. They were happy. We were happy. But of course, it was not the entirety of my day. Twenty minutes later in fact, the kids were at nursery and I was at my desk, troubled by my to-do list, which in the course of a few emails had somehow tripled in size.
Snow is beautiful. Until it’s not. The next day, that pure snow had become sludge, stained with dirt and mud and, likely, dog shit, too. But rarely does anyone take photos of the sludge that snow becomes. Snow is not magical when it becomes black ice, or stops trains, or makes you miss out on a party, or keeps you stuck at home wrapped up, fearing how much the heating will cost.
This is the time of year when the comparison trap feels most treacherous. Look on Instagram too long and you’ll feel yourself falling in, no matter how content you felt before you started scrolling. We see the highlight reel, the glamour and glitz, the bigger trees, the brighter baubles.
And I am certainly not immune from coveting. I yearn for so many things, even though I have plenty. I fall for the artifice of perfection just like everyone else does. And I am unintentionally complicit, too. Because I am human, because as the year rounds to a close, we are told that more is more is more. Because we all have desires, and this is the time of year for dreams.
The night of that first snow day, my cherubic son – pink cheeked with the cold snap’s pinch – had a tantrum because we did not have any physalis for dinner. Yes, physalis. Despite almost never having this fruit in the house, my son having only seen them in a cafe the week previously, his fury raged on.
‘We don’t have any, sweetie,’ I kept saying, ‘I can’t magic them here.’
But logic was futile. He would not negotiate with anything as sensible as reason. Eventually I dissociated from the moment, before finding calm again at the absurdity of a three-year-old screaming for physalis. How a tiny child can turn into Little Lord Fauntleroy over the most unexpected of fruits.
My husband and I laughed about it afterwards. Did I ever imagine this when I yearned for children all those years ago? Did I ever really imagine the tantrums and the terrors and the challenges that lurked in the sludge between snaps of picture-perfect snowy smiles? I would not swap these strops for the alternative, the absence of it, but still – when I dreamed about my future family, I only dreamt in technicolour, never grey.
And yet, so much of parenthood – so much of life! – is a shade of grey. And actually, grey has a gradient. Grey does not have to always mean dull – it can be shiny and silver, or soft and reassuring, moody or thunderous or strong. The greys in-between rarely get the attention they deserve. Sometimes the magic moments are after the photo’s been taken.
Which is to say that, as the new year approaches, I pledge to try not to forget my own advice. Value the present, whatever it looks like. I do not need life gift-wrapped to know I have it good.
So consider this a useful reminder if you need one, too – a friendly tug towards safer ground should you teeter too close to the comparison trap. Social media can make you worry your own offerings aren’t enough, fun enough, grand enough, that everyone is doing it better. But no one can compete with packaged happiness – even the creator of curated joy worries. Smiles fade, snow melts, perfection is transient. Life is not just Christmas lunch, but a messy sink with dirty dishes afterwards.
I hope this doesn’t sound depressing. I mean all this in a good way. There are moments in between the moments that might not seem significant through the lens of a camera, but they matter because they’re yours.
Wishing you love, connection and serenity for the festive period, however you spend it.
(And of course physalis, too. Or else face the wrath of an irrational child coming for you.)
Hi Amy, I don't know how else to send you a direct message so I just wanted to say Thank you! I think you've comp'd me an upgrade to your Substack, which I hugely appreciate, and have returned the favour. Thank you so much, I can't wait to read more of your writing!
If you didn't mean to comp me... I'm sorry I'm stealing your writing without paying. Xx
Amy, this was so touching and timely for me. We are back in the hospital so Christmas looks quite different this year. Keep reminding myself that it is a feeling and a spirit and that’s still present here. We can eat good food and do gifts another day. ❤️
Also had fun learning about physalis - and have to know, does he actually like to eat them or just the idea of them? 🤣