When I was a child, there was always a moment – at some point in the middle of the afternoon on Christmas Eve – when my mother would lose it. Preparations would be under way and behind schedule, and my siblings and I would be engaged in something deeply counterproductive like tracking mud across a freshly mopped floor or pushing the tree over. When the moment came, my mother would cast aside whatever she was doing and scream: “That’s it! Christmas is ruined!”
Then, after a tense and silent interval, everything would be fine again: guests would arrive, my mother would put on a practised smile to open the front door, and festivities would commence. That silent period usually lasted about an hour – sometimes more, sometimes less. One year I remember my mother still screaming at us while cars pulled into the driveway, her hand already on the doorknob. But, for me, the holiday didn’t really kick off until that announcement – “Christmas is ruined!” – was made. I came to sort of look forward to it.
