I am, by my own admission, sickeningly smug about how balanced a relationship I have with my partner. Ours is what some might deem a rather “millennial” alliance: we are equal breadwinners, work the same hours and divvy up the childcare. We communicate well about our feelings, our finances, our families. He doesn’t babysit our son – he parents him. We even have a civil partnership because we felt marriage was too problematic, too steeped in historical gender inequality. There are no “boy jobs” or “girl jobs” in our household. So why, when it comes to Christmas, do I find myself doing all the bloody work?
The festive merry-go-round starts in September when the annual text comes in – to me, of course – from a family member: “What are you thinking for Christmas this year?” And so begins my seasonal shift as a logistics coordinator (no pay), managing the needs of different relatives, working out who we prioritised last year and who we need to consider this time. Tentative suggestions about our plans are met with shrugs and “sures” from my partner as I liaise with friends and family on timings, locations and, now we have a baby to think of, festive nap schedules. (“Should he nap at my mum’s or yours? Pram or car? Before or after lunch?” “Sure.” “Sure.” “Sure.”) The list of plans – and of people to communicate them to – is seemingly endless, and seemingly my responsibility.
