The tree we chose was a sturdy little chap: 2ft tall and with a slight bend near its peak. It was a tad uneven, but nonetheless the most handsome in the tattered bunch in front of us. My wife was eager that we buy it as the boy’s first tree, which I felt rather overstated a five-month-old’s capacity for memory. We strolled through, palming bristles thoughtfully in the hope it would make up for a lifetime spent ignoring what is and isn’t good about trees.
‘Hmm, good trunk on this one,’ we said expertly, much like visiting fellows of the Royal Horticultural Society who just happen to do all their tree shopping on the pavement outside Mr Vikram’s News & Wine.
When we finally settled on the one that met our needs, we haggled with the seller. I say ‘we’, but I find the idea of talking down an asking price almost physically painful, so this fell to my mother-in-law who, in that way of Irish mams, could talk her way out of a sunburn.
Satisfied with our £1 reduction, we carried it home and festooned it with baubles and lights to get his reaction. His ‘first tree’ may mystify me, but any such ritual is more for us than him since his record button isn’t yet fully on. In fairness, even I forget this. I spend five minutes staring into his eyes and convince myself we have a deep and abiding bond, forged within the soul of the universe and written across our hearts in indelible ink. Then I get a haircut and he is 100% certain he’s never met me before in his entire life. This can also happen if I leave the room for 10 minutes.
Of course, we will both be having a novel Christmas, since it will also be my first away from home. My wife and I have never actually spent the day itself together, since we’ve always returned to our respective family homes, which are roughly one half-Ireland away from each other. We didn’t even do Christmas together after we got married last year because, well, we couldn’t be arsed arguing over where to do it, and who needs to spend all that time together anyway? Now we’ll be doing it as a trio, which is great, but also daunting, since it’ll be on her patch.
I love her family and their home in Dublin, but after 32 years of Christmas in Derry, I’m worried it won’t live up. What if my wife’s traditions are weird, like those people who go for a swim in the Irish Sea on Christmas morning? Or worse: what if my family has been weird this whole time, and her clan are disgusted by our traditions, like throwing rocks at people who go for Christmas morning swims?
My son doesn’t have a say in the matter, which is fine as he’s easily pleased, but more importantly, we can make our own traditions together. Mr Vikram’s tree is just the first, and he already enjoyed that, as much as he enjoys any sequence of twinkling lights, which is to say, very much indeed. Now, if he could only recognise the bloke standing beside it.
Follow Séamas on Twitter @shockproofbeats
