Maybe it was something they ate. Maybe they got out of bed on the wrong side. Most likely it’s just a sign of their teenaged times. All I know is that it came as a shock. You see, yesterday, for the first time in memory, the Prescott children suddenly declared themselves far too busy to partake in decorating the Christmas tree.

It seems hard to believe that only twelve months ago the idea of decorating the tree was greeted with bright eyed whoops of glee. Well, maybe I’m exaggerating the degree of glee previously expressed; my offspring’s 2008 response was more along the lines of “oh, ok, we’ll help, but only if we can listen to Coldplay instead of Haydn’s Messiah.” Which is fair enough; as it happens, Chris Martin does it for me, too. Besides, I’m quite happy belting out all the different voices of Joseph’s “Hallelujah” chorus while the kids are at school; it’s the ultimate feel-good music! But here’s what’s troubling me: up until last year decking the halls was still a joint effort, a family affair. Not that Mr. Prescott has ever really been creatively involved in the actual decking process; his expertise lies more in the field of dealing with the inevitable pre-Christmas collateral damage: putting boxes away, cleaning up broken baubles, and extreme vacuuming. Unlike me, he’s genetically programmed to accept nothing but pristine perfection, and his cleaning skills are on a par with Meister Proper’s! Yes, I know. I’m a very lucky lady!

When I sat down yesterday evening in our as yet undecorated living room, my mind wandered back to Olivia’s first Christmas. I remembered how she wriggled along the floor blowing bubbles, all blonde and chubby and gorgeous in her navy blue romper suit with the penguin on the front. I remembered Greg’s first Christmas, picturing him so teeny-weeny at two weeks old, deliciously adorable in his red velvet Father Christmas suit that played “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” when you tickled his tummy. I remembered icy, push-chair outings to the local garden-centre where my babies would gaze in wonder at the huge, magical Christmas display. I remembered carefully hanging the wonky kindergarten baubles so lovingly made by their podgy little hands. I remembered going bonkers year after year over terminally tangled Christmas lights, trying to convince the kids that I really didn’t need any help. I remembered setting out whiskey and biscuits for Father Christmas, as well as an entire bag of carrots for his reindeer. I remembered the joy of wrapping presents for my babies, of baking biscuits and cakes, of writing cards, listening to Christmas carols, reading Christmas stories and watching Christmas movies. I remembered it all, and I got all emotional.

Seventeen Christmases, gone in a flash…

So this morning, all alone, I set my I-Pod to a cheesy Christmas playlist. I turned up the volume, and then went to work assembling our artificial tree. I strung decorations and thought of all those noisy, messy, wacky days when Olivia and Greg were little children. I pictured them hurtling around the house, skidding around corners in their romper suits, bumping into furniture on their push-cars. I relived it all like a giant patchwork of mini-movies, but I didn’t get weepy, I embraced it. I enjoyed it! In fact, I spent two wonderful hours singing daft Christmas songs to the dogs at the top of my voice. As usual, the fairy-lights were terminally tangled, but this year I didn’t attempt to untangle them for more than a couple of minutes. Instead I chucked them in the rubbish, jumped into the car, headed for the shopping centre and bought new ones. When I got home, I wound them strategically around my tree, making sure they shone on the decorations Greg and Olivia had made as little children. Then I lit a fire, made myself a cup of coffee, and flopped onto the couch to admire my handiwork. Meanwhile, on the stereo, Michael Bublé promised to be home for Christmas.