Let's see if I can ramble on some more in 2013.
I'm sure we're not unique. Well, we are because every family in the world IS unique, but I'm positive we're not the only household with a somewhat unorthodox Christmas. I Googled 'unorthodox Christmas' and got a string of film titles, but ours is definitely non-fiction and the twist is that Santa comes twice. (anyone under eight, please look away!)
Yes, it's true, good old Saint Nick finds his way down our fake chimney breast and is fed wine and mince pies (with carrots for Rudolph) on two occasions. (gifts are halved, not doubled, I hasten to add!)
Those readers with a near-extinct 2.4 children and a red Sierra family (sorry, I just time-warped into the 80s) may be confused; 'blended' families will know exactly what I mean. You know, I never really got this terminology, so I Googled again.
'To blend' means either; "to be merged into one; unite. To create a harmonious effect or result." (definition from thefreedictionary.com), OR; "to mash, chop and grind the constituent parts at high speed so they become mushy, almost obliterated and completely unlike their original shape and form." (my definition, which could equally apply to soup or our family!)
The first definition makes a blended family sound rather romantic, like the Von Trapps with matching clothes made from curtains.
But remember, when you move house it's always unlikely that the colour, pattern, length and width of your existing curtains will fit in your new abode without a lot of hard work altering them.
Anyway, with 'blended' families, Christmas comes as many times as required to keep everyone happy!
I may have previously mentioned that my oldest son was born in Portugal. It's funny, but I must have forgotten this geographical location when my waters broke, 'cos I called Warrington Hospital! Although I spoke Portuguese perfectly well, the all-consuming, body-doubling, brain-mashing intermittent pains (otherwise known as contractions) seemed to adversely affect my second language fluency so I plumped for calling a maternity ward a thousand miles away. The kindly receptionist advised me that, taking into account the regularity of screams during our conversation, I should be hauling my sorry ass to the nearest hospital pretty pronto.
So born in Porto he was. Cutting a long story short (divorce is never a short story is it?), I now live in England and his father lives in Portugal. I also have another son whose father lives in England, hence the 'blending' and the two Christmases. Are you keeping up?
Flippant though I'm being and happy as my boys are with their 'unorthodox Christmas', it's all fine until we are standing on the platform waiting for the airport-bound train and the boys have to say goodbye. My youngest holds on to his brother's hand for dear life, trying to be brave but quite frankly bereft beyond tears.
I don't know about them but at that moment, my heart and soul are instantly mashed, chopped and ground up at high speed until they turn to mush.
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