New generation of emigres' mums get used to a changed Christmas

When your children fly the nest, Christmas is about family coming together for the day, says Barbara Scully. But what happens when they are in Australia?

UNDER any other circumstances I would be delighted with myself, wrapping presents this early.

I envy people who proudly announce, in early December, that their Christmas shopping is done.

I imagine them sitting by a cosy fire, sipping a hot port, as they smugly wonder at our inefficiency, as we trudge around in over-crowded, over-heated shops in search of gifts for our loved-ones.

But for the last two weeks I was that organised person; trailing around shops in search of little presents that would fit my purpose. Nothing expensive — it may go astray. Nothing too heavy or large — it will cost more to post than to buy.

Of course, it’s not easy buying for my daughter when our shops are full of cosy, wintery gifts and she is enjoying high summer in Australia, with temperatures in the 30s. I need tokens. Little treats. Things that say ‘we love you’ or ‘we wish we were there or you were here’.

If I am very lucky, I might find something that echoes memories that are special to us. Last year was a pair of PJs emblazoned with the legend ‘I love you to the moon and back’, which is a line from one of her favourite childhood books. Yes, the one with the Mama Rabbit and the Baby Rabbit.

Where did all those Christmases go? One minute, I was creating magic by writing letters to Santa, visiting his Grotto, telling stories about his robins, who populate the garden to keep an eye on children and take note of any bad behaviour.

It was surely only a year or two ago that we were sitting in our new PJs, watching the news on RTÉ on Christmas Eve, to make sure Santa had left the North Pole and was on his way.

And when did we stop leaving out the carrot, glass of milk and mince pie, before reading The Night Before Christmas as I tucked her, and her sisters, up into bed? It seems like only yesterday.

And I remember all those moments as I go about my new, pre-Christmas ritual, wrapping carefully the little tokens I have bought.

These gifts, however, will not lounge under my Christmas tree for the next two weeks. No, these presents will be shoehorned into a festive box, like a kind of mad, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

The lid will then be forced on and held down with copious amounts of sellotape. The festive box will then be wrapped in heavy brown paper and sealed with duct tape. Her address will be carefully, and clearly, written large on both sides.

Tomorrow, I will go to the post office and attach a customs declaration, saying ‘Christmas presents’. Then, instead of handing it to my girl with one hand while hugging her with the other, I will hand it to a post-office assistant.

I will resist adding any daft comment like ‘I wish I could fold myself into a package for Australia’, or ‘be careful, won’t you’, as if she were going to personally deliver it. Quickly and silently, and with my head down before my tears are spotted, I will head back into the privacy of my car where I will have a stern talking with myself.

I should be used to this. I am thankful, every day, that my eldest daughter is having a wonderful adventure in Perth.

I am thankful that we have been lucky enough to have visited her. And that in the four years she has been away, she has managed one Christmas home with us. Oh, yes. We are way luckier than most.

Because I know I am not the only mammy who packs a little bit of her heart into every package that she sends ‘down under’, especially the ones at Christmas. And I know that many, many families have not seen their children for years. I have some insight into how that must break hearts over and over again.

And, yes, in my logical moments I tell myself that Christmas is really only one day. I tell her that, too, because I know that since the novelty of that first Christmas on the beach faded, she would prefer to be here in the cold, with cosy slippers on her feet, amid the chaos of a family Christmas.

Because when our children have grown up into adults (and mini-adults), Christmas goes from being about Santa and magic to being about togetherness. And that’s why wrapping presents and shoehorning them into a festive box, to send on a journey of 9,000 miles, sucks. Yes, it really sucks.

If this story made you a bit sad then have a look at this one to cheer yourself up -Son scares life out of his mammy by coming home early for Christmas