Hey Dad, I remember my first Christmas. Well, I don’t actually. The first Christmas that I remember, I don’t remember exactly how old I was. I think my childhood Christmas memories have jumbled together...I remember Mum always putting out a carrot and a cookie and a beer for Father Christmas before I went to bed. Is leaving out a beer an odd Australian thing Dad? A nod to the fact that Christmas in Australia is summer? Did you do it growing up in Ireland? I never asked you that.
I remember wanting to hurry to bed and hurry to sleep because Mum told us that Father Christmas would not stop at our house if we saw him. Nice one, Mum. Well played! I would be too scared to look at the sky just in case I caught a glimpse of Father Christmas, the sleigh or the reindeer. He wasn’t Santa when I was a child; always Father Christmas.
I remember big gatherings with my aunties, uncles and cousins on Mum’s side. Your side were all in England and Ireland. Did you miss Christmas with your family Dad? I never asked you that either.
I remember Christmas 1975. We spent it in Southport, England with your family. I was seven years old and I wanted to see snow. But no snow came. There was you, Mum, Lou and me. Paul wasn’t born until the next year. You had three sisters all living in Southport and all with children. Your brother, his wife and children (they had five of them) came over from Ireland with your Dad. Your Mum had died suddenly the year before. I think that was the idea of the trip – have your Dad and the family meet all of us including Mum. Overseas travel wasn’t “the norm” then. Not like now. It must have been a big deal for the four of us to go overseas.
I remember that, after Christmas that year, we went to Ireland and I went with you to lots of people’s houses to visit. They would play cards and drink and smoke. You never drank nor smoked but you loved playing cards. Ironically, cards - Bridge - kept you going in retirement. Gave you a purpose and a routine. Anyway, I am skipping ahead.
I remember certain, special Christmas presents...my first bike. The only bike I ever had actually. It was metallic dark blue – I guess you put it together; not the Elves! And the trampoline, still in the box unassembled and to be shared with Lou and Paul. In those days, trampolines were just rectangular things with no padding over the nasty springs. No one ever got hurt on our trampoline which was a miracle really.
I remember my first Christmas as a wife in 1992 (it meant I had a lot more to think about and more presents to buy) and my first Christmas as a mother in 1996 (Mark was born in early January so I had to wait almost a year for that occasion). I also remember every first Christmas with each of my four children. You were always there – part of every Christmas.
I remember for many years after you and Mum divorced that you wanted to spend Christmas Day with your new partner and her friends. You also wanted to see your grandchildren so you always wanted to come by for breakfast. It meant we had a rushed Christmas morning every year then lunch with my in-laws and dinner with Mum or the other way around (we alternated each year). Christmas became a test of endurance for me. I resented you for the rush and tried to tell you so many times but you were stubborn about it. I never could change your mind about anything Dad. You were black and white. No grey. Decision made, decision done. I’m not like that.
Why all these memories? All this reminiscing? It’s because of the last few months with you Dad. When you were sick and then we realised you were dying. The long days in the hospital keeping you company as the cancer ate away at you and you shrivelled in front of me.
This year is my first Christmas without you Dad. I knew it was coming. Knew it a year ago when you were diagnosed. Just didn’t know when exactly.
Parents should die before their children. That’s the right order. And you were 83. Not young. But the finality has rocked me. More than it did when my father-in-law died and that’s not because I didn’t love him. I did. He was a beautiful man and I miss him to this day, thirteen years on.
I think you going Dad has rocked me because you were always there. From the beginning. So many childhood and adult memories are weaved with memories of you and now you’re gone. And if I have a memory which leads to a question, I can’t ask you any more. All I can do is have these conversations with you in my head.
Anyway, I remember Dad. All those Christmases. Lots of things actually. Over my whole life.
Hey Dad, I miss you.
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