Lessons from a two year old: Christmas edition

Christmas is a time when families come together. Sometimes things explode, unwanted and unexpected, like an insidious grenade of a cracker that no-one pulled; or, if you’re really unlucky, like an Eastenders Christmas special.

But sometimes, Christmas is lovely. There's the tree, twinkling in the corner; the presents, frantically acquired and hastily wrapped, often the night before; the gently steaming mulled wine simmering on the stove; the alluring aromas of the roast dinner; the catch-ups on the sofa over a nice hot cup of tea and Sky Plus.

This Christmas was one of those Christmases. Not showy, or dramatic (beyond the Eastenders Christmas special); just family, reunited, under one roof, enjoying each other's company.

One person, above all, has loved the full house and the attention of doting family members. Rohan. He has been spoiled rotten. Not just with the presents (so many presents), or the newly acquired and exciting knowledge of Santa Claus, but by the constant stream of playmates and companions, the steady outpourings of love and affection, with him at the centre of it all.

But, as in life, sometimes people come, and then, after a stretch, they have to go. Sometimes you see them again, and sometimes you don’t. And the more you love them, the harder it is to accept it when they leave.

So it was today. After a seemingly endless morning of packing and unpacking the car – what appeared to be a mammoth task of Super Tetris proportions – it was finally time for Rohan's beloved Ajima (grandma) and Azoba (granddad) and Bua (auntie) to head back home to Shrivenham.

Moments earlier, my nephew was in high spirits, running around the hall and affectionately head-butting us all like a new-born lamb as his dad shuffled past out the door with yet another suitcase or bag of Boxing Day sales shopping to try and tessellate in the back seat of the car.

“Ro,” my sister explained, “Ajima, Azoba and Bua have to go back to Shrivenham now. That's why they're packing the car. Are you going to say goodbye to them?”

He looked up at her with a slight frown, not quite comprehending the full meaning of his mum’s words.

“Are we going to Shrivenham too?” he asked.

“No, baba,” my sister said gently. “Not today. There’s no room in the car! Look, there are too many bags! There’s hardly any room for poor Ajima in the back!”

He looked from my sister to me, as if for affirmation. I could see the cogs whirring: realisation, slowly starting to dawn.

“But we can go visit Shrivenham soon,” I piped in. “And it'll be your birthday soon, too, so we'll see them again then!”

My jaunty, optimistic C-Beebies tone, however, didn't seem to be having the desired effect. He was beginning to look increasingly bewildered by this unexpected turn of events.

My sister and I shared a quick, knowing glance, very much aware of what was coming. 

He was temporarily distracted by the onslaught of goodbye hugs and kisses, but there, in the doorway, the tears started to pool in his eyes.

“But I want to come!” he said. “I want to go in the car.”

“Let’s go into the lounge and you can stand on the sofa and look out the window and wave at them,” my sister suggested, deploying a tried and tested distraction technique.

We huddled him into the lounge and he clambered onto the sofa. “But,” he said again, bottom lip wobbling, “I want to go! I want to go in the car!”

“I know, sweetheart,” my sister said, cuddling him, “but look, there's no room for your car seat and we can't go in the car without your seat, can we? And look! Daddy's not going in the car, either. He’s coming back inside.”

“Daddy's not going?”

“No. Look, there he is. Wave!”

Outside, my brother-in-law hugged his family a final time and then came back into the house. As he entered the lounge, Rohan turned to him and said, sniffling, “I want my seat.”

At that moment, as I looked at my nephew and his adorably pitiful little face, I felt a tugging sensation deep in my chest – I knew that he would probably forget all about it in a few minutes time (ah, the joys of being a child), but nevertheless, it was recognition of a feeling most of us have felt many times before and will continue to feel, from now until the end of time. The sadness of saying goodbye to people that you love.

Lesson #4: Goodbyes never get any easier.