This weekend I hosted a Christmas-in-July party and let me just say if children have ruined your pursuit of peaceful and symmetrical tree decoration, if you too now have a tree that has more transformed toilet rolls than delicate glass ornaments on it, then you should throw this party. For your sanity. This is Christmas for you. Let them have December.
Usually I’m quite child-inclusive, as one would expect from a stay-at-home mom, but this year children were banned. I debated whether I should try and hide it from my kids, but I reckoned that is not a good life lesson to teach them. “Mom and Dad are doing something fun at the weekend and we are not telling you, but please, when you are a teenager do tell us all about your comings and goings”. So ja, I told them.
“This weekend you are going to Nanna and Grandad’s for a sleepover!”
“Yessssss!” [squeals], “Can we go for a double sleepover?”
“Yes, you can my cherubs!” [because I have in-laws who are The Best Sports and take seriously the oath all grandparents take, that the only rule at Nanna’s is that You Can Do Whatever You Want.
“We’re having a grown-up party at home this weekend.”
“Will there be sweets?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh, okay,” says Kingsley. “It’s okay if we don’t come.” Magnanimous.
“Will there be cake?” asks Pippa.
“No, I don’t think so.”
They glance at each other sharing the spectacular knowledge that they have won the lottery and will be spending the weekend watching Jurassic Park (banned at home) and gorging themselves on sweets, not eating a balanced meal and being sent to bed when the adults arrive.
“What will you eat at the party?”
“We’re having soup and bread.”
Kingsley then turns his full and pitying gaze on me, “maybe someone will bring a treat, Mom”.
You could basically hear them saying, “and they call that a party?” to each other.
I did try and explain the theme for the party, but was vague, not wanting them to expect Christmas presents. In fact, their incredulity at a Christmas-themed party in the middle of the year is similar to many unschooled northern-hemispherers on the psychological condition I like to call “all-our-holidays-were-designed-by-colonizers-and-make-no-sense-to-us-so-we-have-invented-our-own-to-account-for-our-poor-cousin-mentality”. Christmas-in-July is the epitome of what it means to be on the receiving end of a world you didn’t create. And as with Barbie, we could take issue with it, or, we could choose to enjoy ourselves, and lean into that delicious false consciousness that tastes like Glühwein.
And so, we throw a party that makes sense of the pagan festival of light in the dead of winter, which is what “Christmas” was before Christ was born. It makes sense that the Christians chose to tack their special occasion onto an already well-loved social event, it worked metaphorically, and well, I’m sure everyone already had those decorations lying around. It was excellent pragmatism, really.
Anyway, a good time was had, and I remembered all the other Christmas parties, in July or otherwise, my friends and I have thrown over the years. The one where I made a gammon and everyone else brought only desserts. The one where, Deborah likes to remind me, I didn’t get out of my pyjamas and breastfed through the entire thing. The one where we passed around a colicky baby. And I just thought, look how far we’ve come! I’m in sequins and red lipstick and the kids are with babysitters. We have arrived.
Also, the party marked my 6-month mark of My Year of Not Getting Shitfaced. And I am pleased to report I can have a good time without being a drunken lunatic. Thank you, God.
Love this one ❤️