Ho Ho for the Holidays

Last weekend we went to the only holiday party that we have actually been invited to this year. However I didn’t get to wear a glittery little number with a push up bra and flirty high heels, or even crack out the false eye lashes and sparkly eye shadow because this event was at 11am on a Saturday morning and was centered around decorating festive cookies with a visit from Santa promised after lunch.

Four had decided to dress up anyway, despite the casual hour and when I went up to her room at 10.59 to chivvy her along, I found her looking most fetching, if a little inappropriately attired, in a miniscule pink tutu pulled high around her waist and absolutely nothing else. She flew into a rage at the suggestion that she might grow a little cold in this outfit and was only reluctantly coaxed into a warmer dress (and indeed some underwear) when it was pointed out that she might get frosting on her lovely costume which would be hard to wash out and then she’d be sad.

We all piled into the car and went off down the road to our friends’ house and it was all very cheerful and warm inside, full of delicious food, lovely smells, a beautiful tree (“why is their tree PRETTIER than ours?” Wailed Four) and approximately thirty small children, all of whom were racing around unsupervised grabbing the candy that was meant for decorating the cookies and stuffing it into their faces by the fistful. 

Four was shy at first and didn’t want to leave my side, but once she realised that being out from under the parental radar meant better access to sugar, she soon scarpered. One clung to me like a limpet and pointed pitifully to the microwave which is, for those of you who read the last post, is One-code for milk in a bottle which is currently being denied for fear of regurgitation. He scowled at, whined,  pushed away and alienated all of the mothers who wanted to coo over him (he is a rather fetching-looking little boy, all blonde hair and winsome blue eyes), which left us standing in the kitchen with the beer-drinking, not-very-helpful-with-the-kids kinds of dads, which in turn left me being scowled at by their tired and irritated wives, and thus the circle of ostracism was complete.
Funny how that kind of thing is so symmetrical.
Husband had just complimented me on how I had finally achieved a ‘Hollywood figure’ due to the gastric flu in Africa (was this a compliment if the word ‘finally’ appeared in the sentence?) and here it was, making me new unwanted friends and enemies all the way in California at a childrens’ party. Who knew?
Anyway, like One and Four I dealt with my social awkwardness by stuffing my face full of delicious Christmas calories so that I didn’t actually have to answer any questions or say anything at all because my mouth was full of food on a continual basis for two and a half hours.

For several days I felt pretty disgusted with being back because it was clear to me that after my month on the loose feeling free as a bird on the wild continent, I was now firmly backed into the stall with only the prospect of kindergarten open-houses and circular conversation to look forward to. However, while Four and I were Christmas shopping for gifts for her and Ones’ nursery school teachers  (a giant bong? I know I would want one of those if I had to look after eighteen 3 – 5 year olds every day for ten hours, but perhaps that would give an unfavourable impression) we paused at a coffee shop for sustenance in the form of hot chocolate. It was very crowded with standing room only, but by luck, Four spotted a single cosy chair in an arrangement of several by a low table and scootled herself off to sit in it. Had I actually already been sitting down in said chair I would have fallen off it when the gentleman next to us offered to get up and give us his seat which would have forced him to leave the shop mid-coffee as there was nowhere else put a body. This kind of behaviour is what one would like to think happens all the time, but in fact my experience in the last few years is that people will rush to get to the door ahead of one specifically in order to let it shut in one’s face , but I’ll reserve the decline of manners for another day.. Anyway, I thanked him for his kind and gracious offer but actually (due to my new, svelte figure for those who didn’t pick that up from the first time I mentioned it, and I might have to say it a few times again before it disappears in the festive munchfest) Four and I could both happily fit into the one oversized armchair, so no need to move.

We got chatting later on and it transpired that he was a conductor, in town from Berlin for the new production of Peter Pan that Four and I were due to attend the very next day. This was most exciting and he invited us to visit him in the interval at the orchestra pit when we went.  It was a fabulous piece of theatre and the nearly three hours whizzed by with Four hardly wriggling at all. The only damper was the ghastly child in front of us who shouted, jumped up and down, stood on her seat, waved at the performers and called at them to speak to her and loudly exclaimed that Peter Pan couldn’t really fly, he was on strings that she could see, and that fairies weren’t real. Her parents seemed to think her behaviour was cute (unlike all the other parents in the immediate vicinity) so finally I told her to be quiet which didn’t work for long, but at least toned it down a bit. Thankfully Four was too enraptured to notice. During the interval we fronted up to the orchestra pit and Four presented our new friend with a candy cane which is a very big deal – she doesn’t give up candy easily as it’s a rare treat – and after chatting a while about Europe, music, art, travel, books etc. I was quite dizzy with delight at having an actual conversation with somebody interesting and creative about things that I know about and enjoy. You know, like I used to have all the time when I had a real life in a real city and when life could be completely different by 10pm than it was at 10am.

Before I knew it I found I had rashly invited the conductor over for Christmas dinner without consulting Husband, or knowing him from a bar of soap – after all, I’d only met him at a coffee shop once and seen him wave a baton at a bunch of musicians. 

The conductor looked delighted and said he’d had one other invitation from a cast member but wasn’t sure what he’d be doing, he’d let us know.

I don’t know if he’ll come, and I was rather vague with Husband about it, but at least it is good to know that if we do end up with company this Christmas we won’t have to talk about bake sales,  house prices and nappies. It also feels like a gratifying return to character (you know, when I used to have one before my character became ‘mother’) to  make instant friends with other oddballs in coffee shops and invite them impromptu to Christmas.

I was just considering the backed into the stall analogy and thinking how hard I strive to avoid that . There is, I note, some kind of charming, seasonal opportunity with the whole manger, three wise men, shepherd and animal scene to make some kind of literary chortle worthy ending, but I’ve just decided that I’m not going to do that. So there.

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