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What I really want for Christmas

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MumsnetGuestBlogs · 24/12/2013 10:21

"What do you want for Christmas?" asks my husband. No question makes my heart sink more - not even "Mummy, can you guess where my poo's hiding this time?"

What do I want for Christmas? I know what I'm supposed to want: some sort of jewellery effort, handcrafted from sterling silver and my son's fingerprints, to wear like a badge of motherhood. I don't though. Not because I particularly dislike mum jewellery, but because in my head I'm more than just Mummy, and I don't want something for Christmas that celebrates my reproductive status. I'm a bit more rock and roll than that, you know? A little bit edgy, a little bit quirky, damn it.

That doesn't make it any easier to work out what I want. I can think of plenty of things that we need. Say, a nice new toilet brush or one of those thingies that you hang your bananas on. But everything else I could ask for seems to fall into one of three equally laughable categories:

1. Impractical:

Pre-child, Christmas morning was like an explosion in Agent Provocateur. Nice underwear was my 'thing': satin, lace, velvet, silk, suspenders – the lot. Not to mention what I politely refer to as 'bedroom shoes' IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. The trouble is, when your small boy's got a habit of going into your cupboard and coming out wearing a black satin thong pulled up over his shoulders Borat style, it loses its appeal somewhat. Plus high heels and wispy scraps of lace don't cut it when you're dodging dog poo and scooters on the school run, and the wind's whistling up your flue.

Ditto books and music, great piles of which would once have made my Christmas. I used to be a voracious reader, but these days my literary debates are of the 'Gruffalo V Mog the Forgetful Cat' variety, and the last thing I read was a dog-eared copy of Take a Break in the doctors' waiting room. And don't get me started on music. Life with my husband once revolved around watching bands and late night, whisky-fuelled conversations about who we saw playing in a tiny pub before they were signed and what we'd got on vinyl. These days, however, the soundtrack to my life is whatever Rory and I can find to dance to on Youtube, and veers wildly between Agadoo and Stayin' Alive. Not even the Bee Gees original – I'm talking about the 1995 N-Trance abomination. Get raw with the fever on the dance floor.

2. Complete Fantasy:

My pre-childbirth ability to eat cake all day and stay thin. A proper salary. A full night's sleep. A visit to the toilet during which nobody wanders in and expresses concern about my missing penis. The possibility of walking across the living room without being crippled by abandoned Lego. A conversation with my husband in which we discuss culture, politics and intellectual pursuits rather than how tired we are and US crime dramas. An episode of Thomas the knobbing Tank Engine in which an abandoned suitcase contains an explosive device and obliterates the Island of Sodor (see also Postman Pat anthrax attack). A life free from the shackles of chiselling dried on Weetabix off of every motherfucking surface of my home furnishings. Or just a life in general.

3. Gin:

Lovely, lovely gin.

See what I mean? I'm a Christmas present minefield. Suddenly I understand my mother's "oh, well, I could do with a new deodorant – Boots own is fine", when asked what she wanted for Christmas: unless you fully embrace it, motherhood is a Christmas present no man's land. It's time to admit to myself that I'm just as mumsy as the next woman. When Christmas morning rolls around, you can safely assume that I'll be crying into a bog brush, a value pack of floral M&S knickers and a bumper bottle of Gordon's from the cash and carry. Merry Christmas everybody. Rock and, indeed, roll.

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NumptyNameChange · 24/12/2013 12:10

had a chuckle at concern over your missing penis - been there

i'm recently reading again and have even bought a few cds - albums produced in the last 12months would you believe - that i'm determined to listen to. i'm a single mother of an only child who is now six and i didn't have him till i was 31 so i'm hoping there's a chance for my re-emerging identity to stick and my life to continue forward in ways less predictable than hanging tacky Grandma plaques on my kitchen wall.

we'll see though.

liked this blog post very much, thank you.