As a little kid, I always slept terribly on Christmas eve. 

I’d try and go to bed early. I’d tell myself that the sooner I went to sleep, the sooner I’d wake on Christmas morning. But sure as anything I’d be up all night, listening for any sound of activity on the roof.

Together with my three little brothers and sisters, we’d be desperate for mum and dad to throw open our bedroom doors at first light, and we’d scramble down to our spindly-and-slightly-off-centred Christmas tree to see if Dad’s old football socks had been attended to by Santa. 

I suspect this Christmas eve will be another poor sleep. Not because I’ll be excitedly listening for the sound of shuffling reindeer on corrugated iron, but because it’s my first Christmas morning with our ten-month-old son.

We’re taking both our boys to their cousins’ place. Five kids. Average age: four-and-a-half. Our eldest is already fizzing. Our baby will have absolutely no idea what’s going on but will sure as anything wake up a minimum of three times in the night to demand cuddles and a feed. 

Christmas is a kind of touchstone for our family. Like many Kiwi families, it’s the one time of year when all of us (or at least as many of us as possible) are in one place at the same time.

Weddings, funerals and Christmas are the only occasions we’re all together. And Christmas is the only regular date.

As a child you never think of this stuff, but as you grow older you are gently confronted by the reality that for better or worse, the numbers in the room change.  

The grandparents whom I shared Christmas day with as a little boy are no longer with us, no longer sitting on the couch, sipping their coffees and wryly commentating as the kids tear into the wrapping paper. Granny was a very active woman. Every Christmas morning after we’d stuffed ourselves with chocolates and junk, she’d lead a brisk stroll through the neighbourhood as we worked up an appetite for lunch. Dad and my grandad would stay at home and race through a cryptic crossword.

Now it’s different. For the kids it’s more or less the same. All magic. A whirlwind. A blur. But for the rest of us, a new baby just reinforces our awareness of having stepped up a generation.

Where once I was struggling to sleep through the night on Christmas Eve, now it’s my boys and their cousins. My parents have become the grandparents sitting on the couch, sipping their coffees, wryly commentating proceedings. My siblings have become the parents, the aunts and uncles. People who once were there, are not. New, excited little bodies have taken their place.  

There’s sadness in it. But there’s something quite beautiful about it too, placing yourself in a generational context like that.

It’s a circle of life thing.

It’s funny that it comes at Christmas. Other cultures and religions probably have many more of these moments. But we’re a bit short on touchstone traditions. For me at least, Christmas is a short little window every year where the busy lives in my family are about as aligned as they’re going to be.

It’s a touchstone where if you want to, you can step back and observe what’s changed in the family. My son’s first Christmas will mean seeing myself in a slightly different light… not as a kid, or a gift-giver, or someone setting stocking sunder the tree, but as a bridge between different generations of the same family, hoping the spirit of these traditions will continue for many years to come.  

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