Turning point

Time like an ever-rolling stream
bears old ideas away,
Supplanting all with thoughts born new
To fit our children’s day.

          [To tune of “O God our help..”]

It’s two days before Christmas. My family is gathering at my home today for the big annual celebration. I’ve been in charge of this event for the last thirty five years. Because my adult sons and daughters-in-law are now all caught up with both work and family, they have not taken on this tradition, leaving it to me. If I don’t do it, the only family togetherness we have each year will not happen. I am rueful that I’m in charge again, but cannot bear the thought of not seeing them all together at least once each year. As usual, I have spent considerable time and energy shopping, cooking and preparing. This year, the task seems a little more onerous. I wonder if at 67, I’m really past it, but push that thought away.

Family members begin to arrive. My daughter-in-law blurts out, “Mum’s just told my sister and me that she can’t manage Christmas this year. My sister and I have got two days to organise it! I’m still in shock!”

I look at her 36 year old, sweet, friendly and suddenly tired face. I feel for her. But I also feel relieved. I’m not the only grandmother who’s struggling to cope.

Other family members arrive. My elderly mother is glad to sit quietly in an out-of-the-way place as three already very excited young grandchildren buzz about, scarcely able to contain their anticipation of the gifts to come. My dear spouse has been coping well with chauffering and is now supervising drinks, photography and the sink. I am feeling slightly manic, receiving family contributions to the meal, rearranging our small frig and setting out snacks and savouries while trying to appear unflurried and sociable. Family members keep telling me to sit down and relax, but also continue to need help finding things in the kitchen. An unwelcome Catch-22 situation! I determine to remain pleasant.

Gift opening time brings a period of relief from small children’s chaotic activity in our smallish town-house, but does nothing to reduce the decibel level. I watch briefly before returning to the challenge of meal preparation. The seven and eight year olds are now in my room, my “sacred space.” There is nowhere else for them to play on this wet and now dark early evening. I listen on tenterhooks, as I wait for a crash, a yell or a flood of tears whilst I’m setting out food.

We all settle around the makeshift table, chairs gathered from every room in the house to accommodate everyone. The four year old decides she doesn’t like anything from the wide variety of festive food. Now not only tired but also hungry, she loses the plot entirely, throwing an intense and dramatic tantrum. Her father pacifies her and looks apologetically at me, asking if a favourite dish of pasta could be prepared. I comply.

Hours pass. By now the 7 and 8 year old are shrieking, laughing, running up and down the stairs, throwing gliders and having a whale of a time. Concentration for this grandmother is next to impossible. The ninety year old great grandmother has lapsed into numbed silence. My devoted spouse drives her home while other family members continue in dialogue. I am glad they are so involved, though wondering how long I can last as I survey the shambles of my once-orderly domain.

At last my older son and his daughters, the last to leave, depart amidst much gathering up of goodies, kitchen equipment and surplus food. He mentions he will be spending Christmas lunch with his former wife at a hotel that caters for children so the adults can talk to each other. They did that last year and it was most relaxing.

Something in me clicks into place. I wonder why he didn’t mention that idea before. “That’s the answer!” my inner voice says. “No rush, no fuss, no angst for anyone. AND we can ALL to talk to each other.” I look at my now wilted spouse, sagging in an armchair. “We’re not doing that again,” I say, with new confidence gained born of sudden acceptance of my aging reality. “I’m way past it. Thirty five years has got to be enough.”

He listens thoughtfully to my proposal.