This year, my husband, my two girls and I are going to spend Christmas with my in-laws.
You might think that, despite some perhaps inevitable friction, I would be looking forward to festivities for which I was not responsible, without cooking, cleaning or preparing.
But my goodness, I would be a slave for months if it meant not having to endure the mediocre Christmas my husband’s family had. From horrible food to sloppy clothing (not to mention his relatives’ rude upbringing), the alternating years spent at his parents’ house leave me feeling, at best, disappointed and sad and, at worst, downright miserable. .
My experience will be familiar to anyone who has ever despaired of giving up the comforting routines of how their own family celebrates Christmas and being forced to follow another clan’s traditions.
We all tend to believe that our customs are the best and many of my friends also despair about those years they have to celebrate with the “other” grandparents. But I doubt any of them have ever had to endure a Christmas as diametrically opposed to the one they grew up with as I did.
The first Christmas I spent with my now-husband James’s family, 16 years ago, made me cry. I had just turned 21 and for me the holiday season had always been synonymous with glamour, glitz and pleasant cheer.
In my family, about 30 members (siblings, grandparents, aunts and cousins) gathered around the table in a special hotel or country pub near where I grew up in Harrogate. We never celebrate it at home.
Bucks Fizz or Kir Royale (with real champagne, of course) is served before we sit down to a four-course lunch. Woe to those who do not wear their best breastplate and sash! I always buy an elegant, sparkly dress and heels for the occasion. Jeans are a total no-no and how about a novelty obnoxious sweater? My grandmother would have a heart attack.
We all tend to believe that ours is the best and many of my friends also despair about those years that they have to celebrate with the ‘other’ grandparents (archive image)
During lunch, gifts are exchanged and everything is tastefully wrapped. We’re not looking for mountains of cheap tattoos; It’s about choosing carefully so that everyone has a couple of special things to open. One year I received a Pandora bracelet, another time I was captivated by a Tiffany necklace from my aunt.
Now let me paint you a picture of my first Christmas with James. We had been dating for almost two years, so we decided it was time to start dividing our time between our respective families. We chose to go to their first because my dad, a doctor, was working over the festive period.
It was the first time he had met James’ extended family and he was eager to make a good impression. He had chirped excitedly about how much fun Christmas was in his family. It would be a big reunion with many family members, as I was used to.
But, he said, since there were no small children in the mix, there would be plenty of alcohol and a much-loved tradition was karaoke after lunch.
I swallowed in horror, imagining hordes of drunk guys murdering Mariah Carey. It didn’t give me much to wait.
My fears were further confirmed when I asked James about the dress code, only to receive a blank stare. I decided to look completely glamorous, like I normally would. Friends who spent Christmas at home instead of going out, like we do, said they always dress up: why should it be any different?
How wrong I was. My mother-in-law laughed cruelly at my festive red velvet dress and joked, “Where are you going dressed like that?” I stood out like a sore thumb, while everyone else was sporting ugly polyester Christmas sweaters.
I was still staring at the shabbily dressed adults when they dropped the turkey on the dining room table. Where were the glasses of soda, the canapés, the intermingled chatter?
My experience will be familiar to anyone who has ever despaired of giving up the comforting routines of how their own family celebrates Christmas and being forced to follow another clan’s traditions (file image).
James’ mother proudly announced that she had cooked everything the night before “to make it easier.” To make it tasteless, rather. Dry meat, muddy vegetables and hard roast potatoes stared back at me from the scratched plate (no festive china here). There wasn’t even cranberry sauce.
The dessert had gone AWOL with the starters. Apparently they are always “too full” for pudding, so they don’t bother.
I was almost crying when the conversation turned to how my family spent Christmas Day. I was greeted with ridicule and ridicule, and James’s relatives openly accused us of being selfish for “making” the waiters and chefs work on Christmas Day. I felt like saying, ‘If their family’s Christmas is anything like yours, it’s no wonder they don’t mind missing it!’
As soon as the meal was over and the karaoke was over, everyone fell asleep on various couches while I sat alone.
Where was the afternoon walk, the charades and even a Christmas pageant? As for gifts, apparently, unless you’re a child, they’re as unnecessary as dessert and won’t be appreciated. I learned this the hard way when my gifts for their parents and grandparents were sniffed at and tossed aside.
This was 16 years ago, but this unfortunate day has barely changed since then.
Since we had our own children, who are now three years and 18 months old, I have been negotiating with my mother-in-law about desserts. She resists, claims it’s ‘useless’, but this year she’s allowed me to bring Christmas pudding… my least favorite dessert.
I’ll make James wear a shirt and dress up as usual and I won’t give a damn about his relatives’ giggles.
You might think I’m a terrible snob for hating my in-laws’ Christmas. My husband, for his part, hates Christmas with my family. He thinks having a team of restaurant staff prepare his Christmas dinner is pretentious, so at least we alternate our suffering. Perhaps we are all doomed to endure festivities that are our idea of hell once we join.
However, we are starting to talk about breaking ranks and organizing future festivities, so that our children can really enjoy the magic in our own four-bedroom detached house in North Yorkshire.
If we do, it will be a fusion of our two different family Christmases: a glamorous occasion with a real tree, elegant decorations, multiple courses of food and many special touches, like a gift for every guest at the table.
But don’t expect a warm welcome if you’re wearing jeans or a Christmas sweater.
India Montgomery is a pseudonym. All names have been changed.
As he told Sadie Nicholas.