Louise O'Neill: How can we make Christmas more magical and more meaningful?

What would Christmas be like if we pared it back to those bare bones – one present, one meal, surrounded by those you love

Louise O'Neill, author. Photograph Moya Nolan

When I was a child, I couldn’t wait to be grown-up. It seemed like the best thing ever – you could stay up as late as you wanted, eat as many sweets as your heart desired without a parent warning you that you’d ‘ruin’ your appetite for dinner, and the curse of homework/tests would be vanquished forever.

I could never have imagined a future where voluntarily going to bed at 10pm would be a treat, or one where I still had a daily uniform and that uniform was sweat pants and an oversized dressing gown. 

If I could go back in time, I’d tell Child Louise not to wish her life away. Adulting is just a merry-go-round of electricity bills and pretending to listen when your accountant attempts to explain VAT to you, as far as I can see. I probably should have realised being a Grown Up was a swizz as soon as I realised Santa didn’t leave presents for my parents under the tree. How is that fair?!

My mother once told me and my sister a story about when she was a child.

She looked out of her bedroom window and she saw Santa walking down the garden path.

He stopped between the two monkey-puzzle trees and he looked back and saw her. He put his finger to his lips, as if to tell her to stay quiet, then winked at her. She dove back under the covers, her heart pounding, almost unable to believe what she had seen. I was never lucky enough to spot him but every Christmas Eve, after I’d brushed my teeth and washed my face, I would lie awake for as along as possible, hoping I might hear something settle on the roof, the sound of hoofs against the slate tiles.

The next morning, as we raced downstairs to see what was waiting under the tree, the thought that Santa had actually been in our house – that he had been in every house of every child who celebrated Christmas in the whole world in one night – was so awe-inspiring, it felt like anything was possible.

As I got older, a little bit of that magic dissipated with every passing year. I stopped asking Santa for gifts inspired by whatever Enid Blyton book I was reading – a pet squirrel, a magic wand that never ran out of wishes – and started requesting this makeup palette, these wide-legged jeans. Cold, hard cash was always welcome, I would say. 

Christmas was still fun, mostly because of the anticipation of a Stephen’s Night spent dancing in the Rugby Club or GAA hall, wearing the shortest skirt and the highest heels I could find, scanning the crowd for whatever boy I was currently interested in. The thrill of the chase and how sweet the conquest was, in the end.

But then two things happened – I gave up drinking and I fell in love. There are many sober people who have to be dragged off the dance floor at 2am after an evening on the sparkling water but I… am not one of those people. Friends begin to slur their words, repeating the same stories I’ve heard a million times before, and I stifle my yawns, thinking fondly of my electric blanket and a good novel. 

After I met my partner, spending Stephen’s Night flirting with an old flame who I know from experience can’t differentiate between ‘there’ and ‘their’, became less appealing. (Not to mention, you know, frowned upon in a monogamous relationship.)

While I could have accepted that Christmas was just an excuse to take a few days off work, eat delicious food, and catch up on sleep, I decided I would not go gentle into that dark night. I have been determined to reclaim the magic of my childhood, any way I can. The radio is tuned to Christmas FM and shall remain there until the new year. Last year, I forced my partner and our dog to wear Christmas jumpers; this year, I bought us matching pyjamas.

I have turned to the one thing that is guaranteed to make a woman in her mid-thirties feel alive – home furnishings. If my festive candles, door mat, hand towels, candles, cushions, and door wreath don’t spark joy, then surely the beauty advent calendar will do the trick? (So far, the teeny-tiny goats milk cleanser has left me cold but I live in hope.) 

Maybe the real problem is that I’ve been looking for joy in the wrong places. I’ve been hoping that these things will disguise the fatigue, mask the emotional exhaustion we’re all collectively experiencing after two years of uncertainty, fear, loneliness, and grief. I don’t know if anything I can buy in a shop can magic that away, no matter how twinkly or sparkly it is. 

The last December before she died, my grandmother talked about Christmas when she was a child. A doll as a present, a goose on the table. Her whole family around her. “What else could we have wanted?” she said. I wonder what Christmas would be like if we pared it back to those bare bones – one present, one meal, surrounded by those you love.

Would that make it feel magical again? Or, and perhaps this is more important, would it make it feel meaningful?