New Mummy Blog: All My Kids Want For Christmas
It’s more than just their two front teeth, apparently.
The toddler would like an all-singing Little Mermaid Barbie, a Disney Princess ball gown, a Frozen wand… and that’s just what she’s seen in this ad break.
And the thing is, I want her to have it all. Everything she’s asked for. It’s Christmas, after all.
Meanwhile, the annual Christmas backlash is starting, the one about the true meaning of Christmas and the unholy festival of consumerism it has become. And it’s not helping the little voice in my head that’s telling me I’m spoiling my kids and the results won’t be pretty. Nor will my bank balance.
[Photo: Yahoo/Claire Sparks]
But I have no inclination to debate the rights and wrongs of the commercialisation of Christmas. I for one love Christmas - every last twinkly light and beautiful beribboned present of it. The festive advertising wars. The Boxing Day sales. The overindulgence. And the sackfuls of goodwill.
But still I stopped in my tracks when I saw that picture of the “present-shamed” mother’s Christmas tree, or more accurately what little you could see of the tree behind the sky high mountain of 300 presents for her family piled in front of it.
And I’d been worrying I’d gone overboard with the presents for my two.
But I’m not judging her. There’s far, far too much shaming these days, of everything. Mums in particular; we can’t do anything right. How we feed our babies, how quickly we lose our baby weight, our parenting styles. Nothing’s off limits.
Still, I suspect that particular mum had no idea of the vitriol that was about to come her way when she posted that picture on Instagram. The questions over her ability to parent. Her sanity. Her decency as a human being. Ouch.
Each to their own, people, please. Hasn’t everyone gotten carried away at some point, with something?
After all, it’s so easy to. I know this well. While I haven’t bought 300 presents for my kids, I have bought what some would say is far too many. Just one more stocking filler; just one more present, even though I swore I was finished, because I’ve gone and found something else they’ll love.
And then, because I’ve bought one more thing for my daughter, I’ve then got to get one more for my son. Got to be fair, after all. Not that my son, at almost one year old, will even notice what his sister’s got, or who has more.
But I should probably worry about my daughter. I’ve realised that, although I may have spent a small fortune on her, everything I’ve bought her is, well, small. The baby’s presents are huge. Enormous. And for a two and a half year old, size matters.
What doesn’t seem to matter so much is where the presents come from. She was handed a present by Father Christmas at her nursery party this week. “Isn’t that a wonderful present!” I said. “Did Santa give you that?”
“No,” she replies, matter of factly. “Mummy bought it in a shop.” That’s me told, then. I can buy as many presents as I like, it seems. It won’t make a difference. The magic of Christmas is dead in the Sparks house this year.
