It was 3pm on Christmas Eve and already getting dark. As I stripped off on a wooden pier over the Baltic Sea in Malmö, Sweden, my husband and five-year-old boy, bundled up against the harsh wind, chanted: “Go Mummy, go Mummy, go Mummy!” Just as I was about to heroically slither out of my final layer, a bearded, completely naked man, who can only be described as Viking-esque, ascended the wooden ladder from the sea, looked at me with horror and possibly hypothermia in his eyes and shook his head. I put my five layers of clothing back on and, feeling deflated, suggested we crack open the Thermos. I knew I had failed at Swedish Christmas.
My family and I emigrated to Sweden from the UK last winter, and while the days seemed impossibly short and dark, we were buoyed up by optimism, glögg (Swedish mulled wine) studded with almonds and raisins, and our new city, scattered with fairy lights. However, as the advent countdown began, a cold front harsher than the Baltic Sea swept through our cosy new home. My husband wanted to be “more Swedish than the Swedes”; I wanted some familiar traditions to pass on to my son. And so, December became a period of friendly but fierce negotiations.
