by Róisín Curé in Galway
Ah, Christmas. The days of magic are a distant memory. I grew up in an intensely religious family (my mother was/is a convert to Catholicism, my father a cradle Catholic). Both were in the Charismatic Renewal movement throughout the 1980s which meant endless interminable religious services, although a lot of them were genuinely very spiritual. And I got to listen to a lot of wonderful religious music in vast, echoing churches, and joined in the singing with most. Nice.
But my faith has long since evaporated. I don't feel any Christian meaning at Christmas anymore. So what's left? Overeating, overspending, over-fretting? A grumble of irritability when I climb the escalator in the shopping mall, inescapable Christmas music assailing my ears from all directions? Have I watched The Grinch too many times? Is my heart two sizes too small?
Then my parents drove all the way from Wicklow to stay with me, and my brother took a sneaky break from work to spend two days with us. He spent days making trimmings for the meal (stuffing for the turkey, a special "jus" which he painstakingly reduced in an already-crowded kitchen) and my mother brought an enormous hamper of goodies. My mum has had three broken bones in the last year and I haven't been able to see her for various practical reasons, so I was overjoyed to welcome her. My father is as contrary, as funny and as good-humoured as ever. And when he wasn't eating or regaling my kids with the stories from history that he tells with such life and realism, my brother was sleeping off the nerves that life in Dublin gives him.
Here's Mum reading on the sofa.
One of the bones she broke was in her back and now, a year later, she has to lie down quite a lot.
My eldest child is nearly 16 but the excitement of the presents was overwhelming, and she spent much time reading the labels on the gifts under the tree. Her younger brother and sister joined her and they "sorted" the presents happily (ie. shook and rattled them).
A beautifully-wrapped parcel under the tree caught my children's eye.
"To Cinnie, lots of love from Cinnie XXX" (That's my mum, their granny.)
My children found this fascinating. To so openly indulge oneself - their dad comes from a family of truly selfless people who would never do such a thing - was very exotic to them. Mum and I laughed and agreed that she'd make a big fuss of opening it. It was a deluxe edition of Scrabble, my mum's favourite game. Those of us remaining settled down for a game last night (my brother had gone back to Dublin, no longer able to ignore the call of duty).
Here are my father and my husband Marcel before the game. Marcel wasn't playing, I suspect because we were having a very mild Christmas-themed row, blaming each other for buying one too many turkeys. Turkeys are great but not when your freezer is full and iced over.
Anyway we got the game underway and I, encouraged by how much fun I'd just had drawing my funny old Dad and husband, continued to sketch. A chorus of dissent went up.
"She's sketching!"
"It's not fair!"
"She won't be paying attention to the game!"
They hate it when I'm sketching because I'm clearly vaguely absent.
I painted them Scrabbling, Dad, my daughter Liv, my son Paddy and my mum Cinnie -
- and I came last in the game.
Christmas was wonderful for me. It meant so much that some of my family were with us. And everyone loved their gifts, and we're all happy, and more or less healthy.
Happy New Year to you all!
Ah, Christmas. The days of magic are a distant memory. I grew up in an intensely religious family (my mother was/is a convert to Catholicism, my father a cradle Catholic). Both were in the Charismatic Renewal movement throughout the 1980s which meant endless interminable religious services, although a lot of them were genuinely very spiritual. And I got to listen to a lot of wonderful religious music in vast, echoing churches, and joined in the singing with most. Nice.
But my faith has long since evaporated. I don't feel any Christian meaning at Christmas anymore. So what's left? Overeating, overspending, over-fretting? A grumble of irritability when I climb the escalator in the shopping mall, inescapable Christmas music assailing my ears from all directions? Have I watched The Grinch too many times? Is my heart two sizes too small?
Then my parents drove all the way from Wicklow to stay with me, and my brother took a sneaky break from work to spend two days with us. He spent days making trimmings for the meal (stuffing for the turkey, a special "jus" which he painstakingly reduced in an already-crowded kitchen) and my mother brought an enormous hamper of goodies. My mum has had three broken bones in the last year and I haven't been able to see her for various practical reasons, so I was overjoyed to welcome her. My father is as contrary, as funny and as good-humoured as ever. And when he wasn't eating or regaling my kids with the stories from history that he tells with such life and realism, my brother was sleeping off the nerves that life in Dublin gives him.
Here's Mum reading on the sofa.
One of the bones she broke was in her back and now, a year later, she has to lie down quite a lot.
My eldest child is nearly 16 but the excitement of the presents was overwhelming, and she spent much time reading the labels on the gifts under the tree. Her younger brother and sister joined her and they "sorted" the presents happily (ie. shook and rattled them).
A beautifully-wrapped parcel under the tree caught my children's eye.
"To Cinnie, lots of love from Cinnie XXX" (That's my mum, their granny.)
My children found this fascinating. To so openly indulge oneself - their dad comes from a family of truly selfless people who would never do such a thing - was very exotic to them. Mum and I laughed and agreed that she'd make a big fuss of opening it. It was a deluxe edition of Scrabble, my mum's favourite game. Those of us remaining settled down for a game last night (my brother had gone back to Dublin, no longer able to ignore the call of duty).
Here are my father and my husband Marcel before the game. Marcel wasn't playing, I suspect because we were having a very mild Christmas-themed row, blaming each other for buying one too many turkeys. Turkeys are great but not when your freezer is full and iced over.
Anyway we got the game underway and I, encouraged by how much fun I'd just had drawing my funny old Dad and husband, continued to sketch. A chorus of dissent went up.
"She's sketching!"
"It's not fair!"
"She won't be paying attention to the game!"
They hate it when I'm sketching because I'm clearly vaguely absent.
I painted them Scrabbling, Dad, my daughter Liv, my son Paddy and my mum Cinnie -
- and I came last in the game.
Christmas was wonderful for me. It meant so much that some of my family were with us. And everyone loved their gifts, and we're all happy, and more or less healthy.
Happy New Year to you all!
