Two Christmases ago, I nearly died as adhesions tried to strangle my bowel. They tried again this Christmas, but these ones were phantom adhesions. I was just sick enough to worry my little sister, Moley, half to death as usually my older sister deals with my histrionics. Moley rushed around and held my hand while tilting her head and looking concerned in just the right sort of way to comfort me. I went to her house and spent the day curled up on the couch with my head in Mum’s lap, while everyone made sure my little wine glass was full, which I find helps phantom adhesions enormously.
Christmas has terrified me ever since I had children. I ask myself, is it that I am so empathetic I can’t bear my children not to be happy at this time of great joy and peace upon Earth? Or is it that I am so egotistical I believe I can be Santa, and that I can wrap happiness up and put it under the tree for my little darlings, who believe their happiness is my responsibility? “We didn’t ask to be born,” they complain, while winking at each other.
There is a shortage of children in the post-Christmas period, something I couldn’t be sure about until the post-Christmas period, as no one in my family seems to know what they’re doing till the day. There is just Jamie and me at Leigh. Mum is coming to stay, and I want the house to be sparkling for her. I am thinking cleaning porches, changing sheets, vacuuming, and maybe mopping floors.
Jamie asks, “What are our plans?” I suggest he could do the outside porch, blowing it with the leaf blower, which is sort of fun, and putting up the new umbrella. Jamie, however, is like a lazy husband and says my plans don’t align with his. His plans are to have a nice nap, then a swim. He goes off to have his nap.
I think of when I would stay with my in-laws when I was newly married and how they would always be slaving away in the garden. I would think, goodness, I’ll never be like that. I’ll be more French and sit in an overgrown garden at an ancient cobwebby table, drinking rosé.
My sister Damaris is married to the opposite of a lazy husband, and I think to myself, be careful what you wish for. My brother-in-law never rests from work or fun. They are all one and the same to him, and he can’t get enough of either. I remember an exhausting summer with him in Ibiza when it was grandchildren time—goodness, what an avalanche of action. He played while we slaved in the kitchen, sometimes having to join in the compulsory “fun.” When the avalanche finally left for London, we put the two little boys on their iPads and lounged around drinking gin. I think it was 11 a.m.
Jamie wakes from his nap, and I suggest he might like to put up the umbrella. He asks who’s going to sit under it, as it won’t be him since he’ll be swimming or playing chess on the couch. He says it’s called chillin’, and maybe I might like to learn to chill. He says I need to, as the kids have numbered me 7 out of 7 in the family for ‘chillin’. He suggests we play a game called chill or not chill.
“Question one. Is playing chess on the couch chill or not chill?”
“Chill,” I say.
“Correct!” he beams and makes a bright squeak as if he’s a green buzzer.
“Is putting up an umbrella chill or not chill?”
I say, “Chillin’,” getting into the spirit of the game. He makes a sad sound like a loser button.
“Come on, Mum, just relax,” he encourages. “Let’s pretend we have Covid.”
I think to myself, Jamie is just a little late hitting his adult milestones like parenthood. How can he mature when he is still only responsible for himself? Is it wrong to elongate the spring of your life when spring never comes again?
My perennial lamb gambols off over the mud flats at Leigh. I thank my parents for having bought a bach at such a beach where a spoof of Baywatch might be filmed—a beach saved from the madding crowds by its sharp rocks and lack of sand and water most of the time. I decide to follow him, and we wallow together in the shallow, tepid water. I think perhaps spring does come again. It’s just a matter of knowing how to chill.



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