4 hours ago
8
There are still moments I pinch myself: when, over the remnants of turkey and red wine, my divorced parents regale us all with an in-joke from their previous life. When, on the pre-lunch walk, my dad and stepdad stroll in lockstep and talk about finance and even feelings, occasionally. When we’ve all exchanged gifts, and the most thoughtful gifts are not between husband and wife or parent and child, but ones the divorced and remarried couples have given each other.
We’ve been doing this for 25 years now, this joint family Christmas, complete with step-parents, parents and siblings. But every so often, I remember how weird it all once felt. The first time, when I was 11 years old, I watched fearfully as, on Christmas Eve, my mum walked into the kitchen she once called hers. Despite her initial efforts to pretend otherwise, it was clear she still knew where everything lived – and that the next 48 hours would be easier if she admitted it.
To her credit, my ever-pragmatic stepmother didn’t mind. Indeed, she relished not having to point out the location of every last fork and bowl; both mothers favoured efficiency above standing on ceremony. Together, they peeled and chopped parsnips and potatoes, and I looked on, hardly daring to trust their felicity.
And yet it held. When I wandered, bleary-eyed, into the room that was once my parents’, and now my dad and stepmum’s, on Christmas morning, I found all four of them, parents and step-parents, in bed together, merrily chatting. Squeezed in tight, clad in their dressing gowns, they resembled the Bucket family in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. If anyone was uncomfortable – physically or emotionally – they did not show it. My younger brothers were already there, waiting impatiently with their stockings, which all four of the parents had filled, with very little prior consultation as to who was giving what.
As paper and Sellotape flew, our parents and step-parents swooped to seize the gifts that were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or with the wrong person. Such scenes will not be unique to our family, I am sure – but the addition of flapping dressing gowns on spouses old and new made for a surreal pantomime, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the cool, waxy clementine that signalled the end of my stocking.
I remember my child’s antennae quivering nervously at the time, wondering how this unconventional Christmas would pan out, but I never encountered the uneasiness or tension I had expected. The adults behaved – well – like adults, who had kids to care for and create Christmas for, and who could be in control of their feelings. There were more mad moments, of course – like when my mum and stepmum discussed my dad’s snoring at length on Boxing Day, or when my mum issued tips on how to make the niche grapefruit and pine nut salad my dad has loved since childhood. But these “weird” exchanges have become my normality and, over time, added to the devil-may-care camaraderie of the festive occasion.
I got married this year, surrounded by family and friends. But when I came to say my thank yous, I thought back to our “weird” Christmas. I thought about divorce – on my wedding day, it’s true – and all that my parents and step-parents had achieved, for themselves and for us; how the care and kindness they showed each other at this and every other time of year has taught me so much about love.
Next year, my husband and my brother’s new wife will join us for Christmas – and while they’re used to our unusual dynamic, I’m looking forward to adding them to the festive cocktail. It will be good to shake things up, and remind ourselves that Christmas is never fixed; that while old traditions are sacrosanct, new people can make them better.
