Christmas is exhausting. I grew up in a Muslim household where my parents made it an act of faith to wilfully ignore Christmas. There was no tree, no presents and no family Christmas lunch around the dining table. I missed out on these rituals, but now that I am married to someone who is not Muslim and have two young children, ignoring Christmas simply is not an option. These days we go all in — tree, wreath, advent calendar, home-made cards, secret Santa with her family and carol singing. You name it, we do it. And that’s fine — it is nice to be able to give Laila and Ezra a taste of the magic and joy I never had — but it comes at a price and for me that means having to pretend to feel things that I do not.
Mostly I have to pretend to be excited about decorating the tree, pretend to be excited about what presents I will be getting and pretend to be pleased with whatever I get. I probably sound like the most miserable person on the planet, so I should clarify that it’s not decorating the tree or giving and receiving presents that I find stressful but the public display of excitement that is expected.
