The shte before christma.., p.26
The Sh!te Before Christmas, page 26
‘Sounds good,’ Cat smiles.
‘I’ll have to check my diary, but sure I’ll let you both know on WhatsApp,’ Amanda says, pulling me into a hug before getting back into the car to drive off. I stand and watch them leave, waving the whole time.
God, I’m a lucky woman.
But I’m also a freezing, stinking, disgusting woman.
It’s time to shower, then I’ll get the wains to bed, and wait up for Paul.
34
There’s snow place like home
Saturday, 24 December
Dear Reader, I did not wait up for Paul. I was a fool to think that was ever going to happen. I intended to, of course. As I kissed our boys goodnight, it was still in my thoughts. When I sat and held Gemma’s hand and let her feel her baby brother or sister kicking, I was already thinking about what I would say to him.
I planned all my conversation points as I showered, feeling the tension wash away down the drain along with all the soap suds and sick. Paul wasn’t cheating. I was not going to have to arrange a hit on him after all. There would be no broken home. No devastated children. No bleak Christmas trying to make everything feel normal when it so clearly wasn’t. Just us. Our family.
I was planning to tell Paul just how much I appreciate him, and all he does for us, but first I thought I’d just lie down a wee minute, towel still wrapped around me, and air dry for a bit before putting my jammies on. I really was exhausted. So exhausted in fact that the next thing I was aware of was Bing Crosby crooning ‘White Christmas’ from my morning alarm.
I open my eyes and there is Paul, fast asleep and snoring beside me. There’s a duvet covering me at least, which is something to be grateful for. I don’t even want to think about the questions I’d have to answer if Nathan walked in to see a naked me at eight months pregnant. He’s still struggling with the concept that I don’t have a penis.
The house is silent, which is perfect. There is so much to do today that I need to get started before the children wake up. I like to have all my prep for the big day done by three so that I can spend the rest of Christmas Eve just relaxing with my family and soaking up the magic of Santa’s imminent arrival. We’ll order takeaway (because I’ll be doing enough cooking tomorrow), curl up in our matching Christmas jammies and watch The Muppet Christmas Carol together. I’ve even bought an extra pair of festive PJs for Pamela. (Hers say ‘Dear Santa, Define Naughty’ across the front, which I think she might appreciate.)
It’s going to be strange having my mother with us for Christmas – but I’m no longer dreading it. After last night, I’m grateful for every single member of my family. Even the borderline insane ones.
And I’m particularly grateful for my mother today because she will be taking the boys, and Gemma, to the panto – which is quite remarkable, given that she is still traumatized by her cinema trip. I must remind her not to feed them too much sugar, although something tells me that’s not a mistake she’ll be making again in a hurry.
I pull on my PJs and wrap myself in my big fluffy cardigan and peek out the window, wondering if the snow that was trying its best to lie last night has succeeded. We all dream of a white Christmas after all – especially when we have finished running around town and can just close the door and watch it from inside the house.
And it’s like a Christmas miracle.
Nothing ever fully prepares you for the beauty of a fresh snowfall, when it’s still dark outside and everything has taken on a hazy glow thanks to the street lights. Everything is covered in a blanket of sparkling white. Large snowflakes, fluffy and full, are still drifting from the sky. There are coloured lights twinkling in some of our neighbours’ gardens, giving the whole scene a real ‘Christmas card’ feeling. It fills my heart with joy as much now as it did when I was a child and I’m almost tempted to wake the boys to tell them. But also I’m not completely off my head: I let them sleep. The snow is so deep there’s no doubt it will still be there when they do wake up.
As I stand, entranced by the beauty of it all, gently rubbing my tummy as this little miracle in waiting gives me a good kicking, I hear an engine roar nearby.
It’s our neighbours, the Johnstons, who seem to be trying but failing to move their car out of the driveway.
Shite!
Does this mean Pamela won’t be able to take the kids to the panto after all? If the roads are treacherous, I can’t expect her to drive. Granted, it’s probably only four inches of snow at the most, but us Derry folk are not acclimatized – or skilled, for that matter – in driving in the snow. Give us torrential rain and a flood any day, yup, not a problem, but snow as heavy as this pretty much means everything shuts down.
‘Paul,’ I say, just loud enough to wake him but not loud enough to wake the whole house. ‘It snowed last night, come see.’
He yawns and stretches his arms up high, then arches his back before swinging his legs out of the side of the bed. He is wearing nothing but boxers and he’s sporting a sexy bedhead of hair. He walks over to the window and wraps his strong arms around my waist, pressing his chest against my back. He leans his head around my shoulder and gently plants a kiss on my neck.
‘Good morning, my beautiful crazy lady,’ he whispers into my ear, and I’m immediately distracted from worrying about the children and Pamela.
‘Crazy lady, indeed?’ I ask, sinking back against him, both of us still looking out the window.
‘Yes,’ he says, turning me around to face him. ‘But good crazy … most of the time,’ he smiles, before kneeling down to kiss my swollen belly. ‘And it’s only going to get crazier soon.’
‘I’m so sorry I doubted you, Paul,’ I whisper, and I’m about to dive into a complete retrospective of the how and why I thought he was having an affair but, before I can, he stands back up and leans in to kiss me.
‘Tara,’ he whispers, ‘you have no need to be sorry. If I had been honest with you from the start about the LARP club, none of this would have happened. I got overwhelmed with everything – work, life, the kids – and just needed an escape. It’s kinda like you and the Rebel Mums, but geekier, I suppose. I just kept thinking how I had nothing of my own outside of family life that made me happy. But I was afraid that if I told you that I needed something more you’d have taken it personally and it would’ve hurt you. You have been a little more emotionally unstable lately …’
He’s not wrong, and now I feel shit. This poor man has been my rock and dedicated his life to me and our family. He’s had to deal with my breakdowns, my meltdowns, my midlife crisis, and has never once made me feel bad about any of it. But how shit am I as a wife, if he felt that he couldn’t be honest with me about how he was feeling for fear I would kick off?
And what’s worse is that I probably would’ve kicked off. Life has been a struggle without my anti-anxiety medication. So in the midst of the madness with the boys, Gemma’s rebellion, being pregnant and then Pamela arriving on the scene, if he’d told me he was staying out late to play board games with strangers, I probably would have strung him up.
This makes me incredibly selfish. He deserves time to himself too, he deserves happiness outside of our family. Finding the Rebel Mums gave me an outlet where I could have fun and recharge before coming back home to be a better wife and mother. He just wants and needs the same. I should’ve understood that more than anyone and made him feel supported and comfortable enough to tell me what he needed.
‘You don’t have to explain anything, Paul,’ I say as I stroke the side of his face. ‘I’ve been a total and utter selfish bitch.’
He shakes his head, but I give him a look.
‘Seriously, Paul, let’s not lie about this. I’m a fecking nightmare at times.’
He laughs.
‘We’re both at an age now where we realize that family life and marriage alone isn’t going to keep us fulfilled,’ I say, realizing the fairy tale we were all sold of ‘happily ever after’ never went back twenty years later to see how Cinderella and her prince were coping three kids later. ‘Neither of us needs to get offended by the other needing a wee bit more. If you’re happy, I’m happy, and that means that our children will be happy. This baby coming is going to turn our family life up another notch, so we need to make sure that we’re both getting enough time to do our own thing, together as a couple, but also alone, and with other people.’
‘That’s exactly it, Tara,’ Paul says, smiling. ‘That is exactly what we need to do, and I know we can do it. But to be fair, if this is my midlife crisis, it’s been pretty timid compared to yours, so technically, I win.’
‘I’ll give you this one,’ I say laughing, ‘But I think it’s more a third of our lives crisis. Come our late forties, you might be the one dyeing your hair pink and joining a Rebel Dads motorcycle club or something, so I wouldn’t get too cocky.’
‘Rebel Dads motorcycle club? I like the sound of that! How good would I look in a leather motorcycle jacket?’ he teases.
‘Will you get Barbarian stitched on the back?’ I reply with a grin.
‘Most definitely,’ he laughs. ‘I love you, Tara, and if I ever seem distant again, please pull me on it. I’ve never been one to talk about my feelings, but as long as I know you’re there for me, I’ll open up.’
‘I’ve got you,’ I say. ‘What is it with men and bundling everything up inside? Be more like me, let it all out, ya gotta let the crazy out or it’ll eat you up.’
‘I think there’s only room for one Tara in this relationship, but let’s see how we go,’ he says.
‘Come here, Barbarian,’ I tease, and I pull him in for a snog. ‘Your morning breath stinks,’ I say mid kiss.
‘As does yours,’ he replies.
‘Is that sex?’ a small voice shouts from the doorway. It’s Nathan, and I hear Jax shuffle close behind.
‘No, this is not sex, you wee rascal!’ I laugh, holding out my hand to him. ‘But do you want to see something really special?’
Nathan runs over and I lift him up onto my hip. Christ, he’s getting heavy. It strikes me that he really won’t be my little boy for much longer. It makes seizing the moment all that more important. Paul grabs Jax up into his arms and we bring them both over to the window.
‘It snowwwwwwwed,’ screams Nathan, in a voice that makes Buddy the Elf look calm and in control.
‘Snow, snow, snow!’ shrieks Jax, and the look on their faces is just priceless. Imagine waking up on Christmas Eve to see that it’s snowed and knowing that Santa is coming to bring you presents in just one more sleep. They are ecstatic. Cue the Christmas Eve hyperness in 3 … 2 … 1 …
‘Can we go make a snowman now?’ Nathan shouts, jumping out of my arms.
‘Yayyy pwease!’ cries Jax, who is already gesturing Paul that he wants down to join Nathan in his happy snow dance.
‘Boys, you know it’s Christmas Eve, so Mammy and Daddy have a lot to do this morning, but how about we wake Pamela and Gemma and see if they’ll take you out?’ I say, already aware there’s a chance this will make me public enemy number one with both my mother and daughter.
They erupt in a unison of ‘yay’s and rush towards Gemma’s room.
‘Paul,’ I whisper, ‘we’re going to have to wait until they’re asleep tonight to get the presents down from the loft. Pamela will never be able to drive to the panto in that.’
‘I’ll sort all that. You get yourself into the kitchen and I’ll take the boys outside to make snowmen. Pamela can help you with the cooking, and how about we let Gemma go see the girls today. I’ll keep them all as busy as possible.’
‘Deal,’ I say, and we share another soft kiss.
‘Eughhh, like seriously, youse are disgustin’,’ a voice bellows from the door. ‘The gremlins want me to take them out into the snow, at this time of the morning!’ Gemma continues. ‘Are they serious? It’s still dark! What’s wrong with you two? Like, can youse not take them? They are actually your children, ye know?’
‘Happy Christmas Eve, cheerful daughter,’ I say with a bright smile. ‘Guess what?’
‘Whatuhhhh?’ she groans.
‘Your grounding is officially over. Here’s your phone. Why don’t you go text Mia and the girls and go have a snow-day or take pictures of the snow for Snapchat or something?’
‘Really, Mammy?’ She runs up to Paul and me and gives us an excited hug. ‘Thank you so much, besties,’ she shrieks, then she grabs her phone and skips off to her room.
‘Pammy said her head is too sore, she is going back to bed,’ Nathan says, walking into the room looking disappointed, as Jax follows behind. ‘She smells yucky too.’ That’s because Pamela is, more than likely, hanging like a bat. I vaguely remember hearing her clash in at around 2 a.m. this morning, so maybe it’s best we let her sleep. Don’t wake the beast, etc.
It also means I’ll be free of her critiquing when I’m preparing the Christmas dinner.
‘It’s OK, boys,’ Paul says. ‘I’m going to take you out. Now let’s all get wrapped up in warm clothes, grab our gloves, hats and scarves, and head out there and make the best snowman in the entire street!’
‘Yayyyy!’ they scream. As they run towards their room with Paul in tow, I hear Nathan ask, ‘Can Santa fly in the snow? What if he can’t get here tonight?’
‘Don’t worry. Santa is extra brilliant at flying in the snow,’ Paul says, ‘sure, the North Pole is covered in it.’
‘Oh yeah,’ says Nathan, ‘Fank God.’
35
Twas the night before Christmas
I’ve peeled the spuds, carrots and parsnips, and have them sitting in pots of cold water along with a pot of Brussel sprouts or ‘russel prouts’ as Nathan calls them, ready to be boiled tomorrow.
I’ve brined my turkey and got it in the oven on a low heat along with two pans of my own home-made stuffing, complete with mixed herbs, breadcrumbs, sausage meat and a little bit of cranberry.
My ham has been glazed in honey and adorned with cloves. My gravy stock is done and currently chilling beside the window. I’ve chopped up all my soup veg and added it to a large pot with stock and a shin of beef. I have pigs in blankets and Yorkshire puddings in the freezer, ready to be air-fried just before dinner. (Air fryer, by the way, best purchase of my life!) A Black Forest gateau is defrosting in the fridge, alongside a Christmas pudding and a trifle that I unashamedly bought and did not make from scratch.
There is an assortment of cheese and biscuits for tomorrow evening, a tin of Quality Street and a tin of Roses.
The smell of power-packed cloves, mixed herbs and home-made beef and vegetable soup is drifting mercilessly throughout the house. The excited screams and laughter of the boys outside paired with the sound of Mariah Carey belting out ‘All I Want for Christmas’ on the living room TV is almost euphoric.
I nip upstairs to make a start on wrapping Gemma’s presents before she gets back from Mia’s. Pamela is still sound asleep, which I can’t actually believe is possible with the racket I’ve just made in the kitchen and the noise from the boys outside in the garden. But it means I can wrap her present too, and Paul’s, as long as he doesn’t come inside in the next ten minutes.
I take out an old gym bag from my wardrobe containing all the gifts I’ve bought over the last few months. As soon as Amazon or anyone delivered a parcel containing a present for any of my loved ones, I immediately brought it upstairs and hid it away in my gym bag – the perfect hiding place, considering how little use it’s had recently.
Any Jax- or Nathan-related gifts have to be hidden in less accessible places because those two wee rascals can sniff out a present quicker than I can sniff out any of Paul’s hidden chocolate stash. And believe me, that’s fast. This year that inaccessible place has been the loft, and Paul has become the designated present hider – given that loft ladders and pregnant tummies don’t go together well.
I genuinely can’t remember half of the stuff I’ve ordered at this stage and have to push down the fear that I might have forgotten something vitally important. It’s too late to do anything about it anyway.
I spend half an hour wrapping presents, hoping that Pamela, Paul and Gemma will love all the gifts I’ve got for them. As I wrap up tops from Shein and a pair of Jordans for Gemma, I think back to when she was wee and how I used to love picking out all the gorgeous girly toys for her. Time really does go too fast. I find myself crying again. My hormones are on overdrive today. Or maybe it’s because I’m just a really, really lucky mama.
As I pop the wrapped presents back in the wardrobe, I start to feel a few twinges in my belly. This is probably the baby telling me to slow the fuck down and stop jumping about so he or she can sleep. To be fair, the poor wee thing hasn’t felt me move about this much in probably the guts of three months. OK, Baby Gallagher, I’ll rest now for a wee while, no need to be sending the Braxton Hicks patrol out in force. I give my tummy a rub, and yes, of course, that sets me crying again.
But it isn’t long until my sniffs are completely drowned out by the noise of the boys bombing in through the front door, both crying hysterically. I wipe my eyes, hoist myself out of bed and make my way downstairs.
‘What’s the matter, boys?’ I ask.
‘My hands are spiky sore,’ Nathan wails.
‘Ouch ouch ouuuuuch,’ Jax cries.
‘Frostbite,’ Paul says, dusting his boots on the mat and closing the front door.
‘Come upstairs with Mammy and I’ll run the warm tap and Daddy will help me get you into your cosy jammies,’ I say, but they’re still screaming as if they both in fact have spikes impaled in their hands.
‘Oh,’ I say excitedly, realizing that in all the excitement about the snow, they never asked about the Wee Donkey, or even noticed his absence for that matter because, yes, today is the day I’ve been waiting for all December. The day the Wee Donkey fucks off for another year. Joy to the world!
Before I’d gone to shower last night I’d done my final set-up of the year. I’d positioned two personalized Christmas Eve books and two pairs of matching flannel pyjamas for the boys on the fireplace with a note that read:
