For tradition's sake

Christmas is an elaborate production. The sheer brilliance of it is that everyone collaborates in one way or another - whether that's buying presents, sending cards, or perpetuating the magic of Santa. The festival is one massive, co-ordinated effort across the nation and most of us opt in without even questioning it. The results are spectacular: from the gorgeous lights illuminating our town centres to crazy knitted jumpers, Secret Santa, fairs, parties and the decorated trees adorning our homes.

My first ever Christmas wreath!

As each year passes, I get more practised at keeping my end up. I now have processes in place (start the cards early; book online shopping slots in November) to make life easier. I know what's expected and I deliver. It helps that it's the same show every year because - let's be honest - I'm not much of an innovator. I follow the time-honoured plan and streamline efficiencies where I can.

Meditations on a festive theme

Hermaphrodite Mum
Three kids and a single mum

My children still believe in Father Christmas - even the eldest one, aged 12. It amazes me that I have managed to hoodwink them this long, without inadvertently spilling the beans. To be honest, it's killing me. I just want to shout: "HE DOESN'T EXIST!" It's me - my darlings - your dear, old mama, who excels in wish-fulfilment. 

When to put up the tree?

But, of course, I can't. There is magic and excitement to be maintained. If I told them it was Mummy filling their stockings each year, their little eyes would roll over with disappointment and ennui. 

Instead, I adopt the psychology of a serial adulterer, secretly hoping to be found out one day. I use the same wrapping paper for the stockings fillers as I do for the 'main' presents around the tree, in the hope that they will rumble me. I even leave price labels on sometimes. Last year, Middle Child idly remarked, "Oh look, Father Christmas shops at John Lewis. Isn't that funny?"

Old acquaintance be forgot?

In amongst the mobile ringtones and the ping of my computer, there is a new sound in our house: the shuffle of a letterbox opening and the plippety-plop of many envelopes falling to the floor. 

Where once I might have left the bank statements languishing on the doormat for days, now I pounce upon the Christmas cards with relish. There is something satisfying about those handwritten envelopes and the promise of what lies within: news, photos and tidbits about a life on the other side of the world.

Christmas is many things, but in my mind it has become a time to consolidate friendships. Facebook does a good job of tending the outer circle, but Christmas cards can reach beyond that network to aunts and uncles, childhood chums and even old work colleagues. The sort of people you rarely see anymore, but still like to hear from.

Messages from auld acquaintance

The memories I share with these acquaintances make up the patchwork of my past. Our interaction is proof of another self that I inhabited years ago - now evolved but not quite shed. Each snippet of news also reminds me of how life plods on outside my narrow sphere - children grow up, marriages are made and broken, loved ones pass away. 

Robert Burns expressed something of this in his poem about remembering long-standing friendships. As one year ends and another begins, it has become a tradition to take stock of the communities that surround us.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne! 

In this age of efficiency, Christmas cards have also managed to outlast the grasping tendrils of technology. The joy of slow communication has seen a resurgence recently, and aside from a few typed newsletters, cards still bear a written hand and travel the old-fashioned way. Admittedly they are arduous to write, but cards received bring a tangible token of friendship onto our thresholds.

Emma Clark Lam is the author of A Sister for Margot