There are some things I have learned to let slide over the past few years (though, it should be said, not without fighting the good fight).
For instance, squeezing the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube in a gradual upward motion no longer remains one of my top priorities. I have tried my best to sustain the practice, leading (or so I had laughingly thought) by example with my painstaking methods of correction—occasionally even rescuing mangled tubes headed for the bin through the demonstration that there was sufficient content remaining for several brush loads.
Alas, my efforts were in vain, and these days I merely roll my eyes when I discover a tube whose structural (well, aesthetic, at any rate) integrity has been warped by careless compression at some (not even satisfyingly midway) point. If you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em.
It's a similar scenario with washing up. My husband is never unwilling to undertake the task and will often get to it before I do (remarkably, it is his habit to wash the dishes as he goes when preparing, cooking, and serving up a roast—the sparkling surfaces and empty draining board always present a joyful sight to others who might be anticipating being saddled with the chore post-repast).
However, our methods differ vastly. He prefers the cleansing properties of a long-handled brush and is overly generous with the detergent:water ratio (the same excessive expansiveness is employed with laundry liquid); I, by contrast, am sparing with the liquid, adding top-ups where needed, and I personally plump for the prowess of a foam-backed scourer, believing it delivers more efficiency and a greater contact with the surfaces of the dishes than a brush can provide.
But I have given up identifying any of his lacklustre dishwashing results to my husband; however, I simply resolve to rewash items as necessary and quietly remove any lingering grease from roasting dishes before replacing them in the cupboard. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?
One thing I had always been unequivocal about, though, was my refusal to anticipate the arrival of Christmas too early. Whilst the house was chockablock with children, I held firm, resolutely stopping up my ears to their clamouring to play festive music, watch seasonal films, or discuss anything remotely Yuletidal before December dawned.
I frowned bah-humbuggily at the array of paraphernalia creeping its way onto retail shelves as soon as the back-to-school merchandise had slunk sulkily away and grumbled Grinchily as the first notes of popular Christmas tracks merrily ding-donged out of store sound systems.
This attitude didn't seem unreasonable; delaying the excitement until either the First Sunday of Advent, when that fell towards the end of November, or 1st December, to heed the observance of the Advent countdown immortalised in the plethora of ever-more secular calendars gracing our walls and sideboards, only enhanced its impact; when one of those portentous dates arrived, I was brimful of glee, primed, and ready to unleash the full joys of the season upon hearth, home, and heart.
This year, though, there has been something of a volte-face in my attitude. I don't know whether to pin it on not having felt in rude good health for the past couple of weeks and thus having weaker resistance, or whether to put it down to a softening of my maternal draconianism, but I have found myself beginning to yield to my young son's relentless and infernal cajoling to permit us to herald the approach of the most wonderful time of the year.
As a cradle Christian, my adoration for all things festive has deep roots in my lifelong familiarity with the Church's hallowed ceremonies, as their hauntingly atmospheric music, spiritual fervour, and sense of triumphant expectation are realised in the most sublime and evocative way when Christ's birth is joyfully pronounced once again to the world.
This faith base richly augments my Yule enjoyment, underpinning it with an other-worldly glow of infinite beauty. Yet the more materialistic side of things is also tantalisingly powerful: the choosing, giving, and receiving of gifts; the planning of meals; the social gatherings in homes full of warmth and light—these are undeniable pleasures.
And the look on my young son's face when I surrendered earlier this month to his beseeching and conceded that yes, we could indulge in a festive film whose scenes were as snowy as its plot was transparent? Priceless.
I fear I have opened the floodgates and will shortly be completely and irredeemably immersed in Christmas cheer. Somehow, though, I think that when 25th December dawns, everything will still be alright.
