Have You Ever Had Your Ma-in-Law at 3am on Christmas Day? (Christmas Travel Stories)

Member Name: marandina

Product:	Christmas Travel Stories
Date:	17/12/06 (218 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: It's the season of goodwill

Disadvantages: It's too blinkin' early

A True Story
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I can’t remember exactly when it was that I finally stopped believing in Father Christmas and, of course, I could be lying for those reading that still believe that a burly man with good cheer and a white beard, still circumnavigates the world on Christmas Eve, sliding down chimneys and distributing gifts to all and sundry. If I could recall that fateful day when somebody despicable did lay it on the line to me that Christmas was just a huge commercial exercise to provide enough metaphorical nuts to get the shops through the winter hibernation then that moment may have been recaptured in a kind of technicolour brilliance just a couple of years ago.

Anybody that finds themselves travelling at Christmas must, sooner or later, encounter Chris Rhea’s “Driving Home for Christmas” on the radio – it’s the law. There’s nothing more salutary than driving along thinking that you should be somewhere else, preferably in a warm living room, decorated tree in the corner lit up by a myriad of twinkling fairy lights, glass of mulled wine on the coffee table accompanied by a plump mince pie flashing a subliminal “eat me” message to you as the television flickers with the mind numbing Christmas schedule. Let’s face it, there’s nothing quite like getting home on Christmas Eve knowing that you’ve got the next few days off and an excessive Christmas lunch awaits your delectation the following day. Time to finally relax one would think but then have you ever had to worry about that momentous moment when your belief in Santa Clause may about to be smashed all over again? You’ve probably guessed by now that that’s exactly what did happen to me otherwise I wouldn’t be penning this tale now.

Every year had seen the same debate – which party was going to visit who for Christmas Day. It’s accepted that Christmas is a stressful time for us all and Christmas Day, in particular, can be a real firestorm. Families fight tooth and nail to either avoid having certain people on that fateful day or conversely, to capture the flag of being able to host the festive fayre for the massed congregation of close family. As ever, I’d humbly gone along with my good lady’s decision to ask her mom and dad to come down from Brumland (which, incidentally, is several hundred miles west of Lapland in case you were wondering) to join us for Christmas lunch. It was always something of a family rotation to work out who would host my parents-in-law each year and, this year, the spotlight had fallen on us; after all, my ma-in-law had unilaterally declared that she was to host no more Christmas Day affairs having “done her bit” when the kids were growing up.

Christmas Eve is a long day if you are a parent. By the time the kids have gone to bed and actually fallen asleep and by the time you have written out Santa’s note, left the carrots and water for the reindeer and placed the mince pie and sherry on a platter for the big man in the red suit assuming he really is going to relieve you of the job of sloping into the garage or loft to secrete the pressies about the lounge and/or kids’ bedrooms then it’s probably gone Midnight by the time you hit the hay. In an ideal world, the next thing you want to register is getting up at a reasonable time on Christmas Day, watching your children open their pressies and helping yourself to a Yuletide breakfast. This year was different; it wasn’t going to work like that.

Negotiations had been a little strained. Not that we where caught up in a United Nations type of scenario complete with interpreters earning a fortune whilst everyone else concentrated hard on the sounds coming through their earpieces but I wasn’t too sure of the proposition. We’d (when I say “we”, I mean my wife) agreed to have the pleasure of my parents-in-law on Christmas Day. The clause in the agreement that niggled me was the estimated time of arrival. Bearing in mind the usual lengthy itinerary for the day in question, my ma-in-law had determined that she would go to Midnight Mass and then drive down to our house in the middle of the night on Christmas Day. This involved an e.t.a. somewhere between 2am and 3am. “We’ll let ourselves in and be really quiet” she assured me as I looked at her wondering if she’d ever been genteel about anything in her life. Still, it was time to adopt an open mind and see what happens. I’m sure she won’t wake us up, I convinced myself.

And so Christmas Eve arrived in a fanfare of seasonal joy. The night’s activities passed off, the kids went to bed and we played out our annual routine of Santa cum cat burglar, stalking about the nether regions of the house to plant the gifts for the wee ones. With our job done, off we toddled to bed. The next thing should have been waking to the light sound of snow falling, me lurching towards the balcony and calling to some young urchin to find the biggest turkey that he could find and buy it for the poor family from around the corner. Erm…no…I’m thinking of “A Christmas Carol” aren’t I? Well, OK, at least waking at a reasonable time and reeling off all the customary things that get done on Christmas Day. HOWEVER, this was not to be. Having traversed the charms of Midnight Mass, my in-laws travelled down the not so glorious M6 and M1 to arrive at my gaff pre-dawn. In a hail of clanking and commotion, we could hear the front door being unlocked by a key and my ma-in-law cursing that she couldn’t see a thing which was no real surprise as the lights were off (quite customary for that time of night). With their beds laid out in the lounge, the next half an hour or so was taken up with various creaks, bangs and exclamations as my relatives finally settled to go to sleep, having managed to offload their luggage and set themselves up in the sleeping bags laid out neatly for them. It was at this juncture that I realised that all of those stories of hearing reindeer hooves on my roof when I was a kid could have simply been pushy relatives arriving at various houses in the street. It seemed that Santa did not exist after all but rather the St. Nick concept was actually based on an army of mother-in-laws travelling through the night to make sure that they were there for the present opening in the morning and good riddens to any son-in-laws that felt a tad cranky having had just a few hours sleep.

The following morning came, greeted by a bland, morning sky and the usual lack of frost in these days of Global Warming. I remember being distinctly tired as I clambered out of bed and sleepily towards my festive fry up. As I switched on the radio, Chris Rhea was grinding out that bitter sweet song about driving home for Christmas and, just for a few seconds, I imagined my ma-in-law in the passenger seat, surrounded by presents and being driven by Father Christmas. It was that final thought that made me realise that there was a right time for travelling at Chrimbo and only Santa should be allowed the use of the roads after Midnight. Maybe he could drop an explanatory note along with next year’s presents and do something useful for us long-suffering relations that host their relatives. If he was real, I’m sure he would. So if you do find such a note next year then just remember that you read it here first and that your extra sleep could all be down to me with a little bit of help from Chris’s hit song and a welcome appreciation of good will to all men.

Merry Christmas.

Mara

Summary: My Christmas Travel Story