This year my husband, two little girls and I are going to my in-laws for Christmas.
You might think that, despite some perhaps inevitable friction, I look forward to festivities for which I was not responsible, without having to cook, clean, or prepare.
But my goodness, I would toil for months if it meant I didn’t have to endure my husband’s family’s mediocre Christmases. From terrible food to shoddy clothing – not to mention the rudeness of his relatives – the alternating years spent with his parents leave me feeling disappointed and joyless at best and utterly miserable at worst.
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 the traditions of another clan.
We all tend to believe that our own way of life is the best, and many of my friends also despair about the years they will 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’ family sixteen years ago brought me to tears. I had just turned 21 and for me the holidays had always been synonymous with glamour, sparkle and good cheer.
In my family about thirty of us – siblings, grandparents, aunts and cousins – sit around the table in a special hotel or country pub near where I grew up in Harrogate. We never celebrated it at home.
Bucks Fizz or Kir Royale (with real champagne of course) is served before we sit down for a four-course lunch. Woe betide anyone who doesn’t wear their best bib and tucker. I always buy a classy glitter dress and heels for the occasion. Jeans are definitely a no-no and as for an annoying novelty sweater? My grandmother was going to have a heart attack.
We all tend to believe that our own ways are the best and many of my friends also despair about the years they will have to celebrate with the ‘other’ grandparents (file image)
During lunch, presents are exchanged, where everything is tastefully wrapped. We don’t like mountains of cheap tat; it’s all about careful choice so everyone has a few special things to open. One year I received a Pandora bracelet, another time I was impressed by a Tiffany necklace from my aunt.
Now let me paint a picture of my first Christmas with James. We had been dating for almost two years, so we decided it was time to divide our time between our respective families. We chose to go to him first because my father, a doctor, was working over the holidays.
It was my first time meeting James’ extended family and I wanted to make a good impression. He had chirped enthusiastically about how much fun his family Christmases were. It would be a large gathering with many family members, as I was used to.
But, he said, because there were no young children in the party, there would be plenty of alcohol – and a cherished tradition was karaoke after lunch.
I gulped in horror, imagining hordes of drunken uncles killing Mariah Carey. It didn’t give me much to look forward to.
My fears were further confirmed when I asked James about the dress code, but was met with a blank stare. I decided to go for the glamour, like I normally would. Friends who spent Christmas at home instead of going out like us said they always dress up – why should this be any different?
How wrong I was. My mother-in-law burst out laughing cruelly upon seeing my festive red velvet dress and joked, “Where do you go to dress like that?” I stood out like a sore thumb, while everyone else was wearing filthy polyester Christmas sweaters.
I was still looking at grown adults who were so poorly dressed when the turkey was placed on the dinner table. Where were the glasses of fizz, the canapes, the mingling chatter?
My experience will be familiar to anyone who has ever despaired at giving up the comforting routines of how their own family celebrates Christmas and been forced to follow the traditions of another clan (file image)
James’ mother proudly announced that she had cooked everything the night before “to make it easier.” To make it tasteless, more. Dry meat, muddy vegetables and hard fried potatoes stared at me from the scratched plate (no festive china here). There wasn’t even cranberry sauce.
The dessert had disappeared with the starters. Apparently they are always ‘too full’ for pudding, so that doesn’t bother them.
I was almost in tears when the conversation turned to how my family spent Christmas Day. I was met with ridicule and ridicule, with James’ relatives bluntly accusing us of being selfish for ‘putting the wait staff and chefs to work’ on Christmas Day. I felt like saying, “If their family Christmas is anything like yours, it’s no wonder they don’t mind missing it!”
Once the meal was finished and the karaoke was blaring, they all fell asleep on different couches while I was left alone.
Where was the afternoon walk, the charades, even a Christmas quiz? As for gifts, unless you’re a kid, they’re apparently as unnecessary as dessert and won’t be appreciated. I learned that the hard way when my gifts for his parents and grandparents were sniffed and cast aside.
This was 16 years ago, but the whole sorry day thing has changed little since then.
Ever since we had our own children, now aged three and eighteen months, I have been negotiating puddings with my mother-in-law. She resists, claiming it’s ‘pointless’, but this year I’ve been allowed to bring a Christmas pudding… my least favorite dessert.
I’ll let James wear a shirt and I’ll dress up like I always do, and I won’t worry about his family members snickering.
You may think I’m a terrible snob because I hate my in-laws’ Christmas. My husband, in turn, hates Christmas with my family. He thinks it’s pretentious to have your Christmas dinner cooked for you by a team of restaurant staff, so at least we alternate with our suffering. Maybe we’re all doomed to endure festivities that are our idea of hell once we become a couple.
However, we are starting to make noises 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.
When we do, it will be a merger of our two different family Christmases: a glamorous occasion with a real tree, tasteful decorations, multiple courses of food, and lots of special touches, like a gift for each guest at the table.
Just 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 told to Sadie Nicholas.