It’s the first of December. A little before six o’clock in the morning. Christmas has jumped out of the boxes in the lounge room and is jingling around the house. My four children are wearing their festive pyjamas and building a homemade sleigh with the washing basket. Did I mention it’s a school day?

“Mum, you have to be asleep now or Santa won’t bring you any presents,” my littlest boy tells me as I set the table for breakfast. He is wearing a reindeer headband, a bulging pillowcase slung over his shoulder and a Grinch-green smile on his face. I sigh, if only I could go back to bed, I could do with a little more rest. But alas, the month-long pilgrimage to Christmas has begun and there is much to do. 

There are end-of-year parties to attend three nights a week and sustainable gifts to make with the kids. A kindergarten musical that my husband and I can’t miss and parcels to hide from my online shopping fling. A gingerbread house to engineer with egg-white and sugar and decorations to hang without making clutter. Magical stories to spin night after night and the promise of Christmas to keep: everlasting light. 

Perhaps this is how December is meant to be. Your to-do list is ever-expanding, like the girth of Mary’s belly. A heaviness in your legs from the weight of it all. Soon I won’t be able to see my toes. I wonder how I will make it. 

“Christmas is all about lists,” a friend muses at school drop-off. I admire her halo and race home to get started. Christmas cards are first up. We decide to make potato stamp prints, they are cute and environmentally friendly: tick, tick. Except there is a potato shortage in Tasmania: a cost of climate change. The kids get paint on the good table and I’m left printing all the cards.

What’s next? Hang the Advent calendar, a homemade creation, with twenty-four felt pockets for tiny treasures to hide in. This countdown reminds us to be patient; to wait. Good things come to those who can self-regulate. Except no one has command of their head and they squabble, “Mine, mine, mine.” The chocolate Santas hit the wall as they shout, “Mum, is that all?”.

But wait, we have Advent candles too: one, two, three and four.  A little ritual that started years before, one I adore. We light them each evening and read stories in a huddle. The press of their bodies, all piled on the couch: a moment of calm, our daily grace above the rabble. The boys like the lighter, the smoke and the danger. I worry that our house will go up in a fire.

At least I have Santa to rein in the behaviour: “You know who’s watching?” And an ‘elf on the shelf’ to back me, completely. But Santa always delivers and no one gets coal. So I switch on Netflix to watch over the flock. Then get back to my Christmas list.

Harvest succulents from the side of a highway to make tiny terrariums. Drive across town to pick up Facebook bargains. Haul the Christmas tree inside, in its metre-wide pot. It’s a feat that requires a trolley and three adults, the top almost scraping our ceiling. And just when I feel I am making some progress, my husband announces homemade crackers for Christmas breakfast. So to my list I scribble: collect toilet rolls and festive one-liners.

By the eleventh of December, I’d lost it: my mind and the list. The festive hysteria is building. My belly button pops. The children are braying, the stable needs mucking out, and little black insects have hatched in our tree. I really need my cleaner but she’s got COVID-19.

Thank the stars my husband is here: mowing the lawn and blowing the deck. At least I have somewhere to sleep and a full stable. The Christ child arrived with less than a bundle. So this Christmas I will practice gratitude. Our messy home will be cherished and our health and safety will be blessed. Then I’ll head outside under a charcoal-grey sky to watch rain and sleet call summer a lie. 

And I’ll remember to breathe before school in the hallway, the kids lined up with their bags, thinking Mum has gone crazy. Perhaps a mantra would be useful for times like this: ‘It’s only breakfast for 30. Kate, you can do this!” Except this year I won’t have Grandma to help, she’s flown overseas, now a magi on Skype. And it’s up to me to continue the family traditions, to tell our Christmas story with native additions.

With seven days to go, I begin to relax. School finishes leave starts, presents are wrapped. My list drops. I’m ready for the final push. It’s the Eve Santa is coming, I have almost made it, one more sleep. Except the ‘10 pm’ sun keeps my children awake and I worry that this Christmas will go past its due date.

But early the next morning four children burst, into our bedroom with sacks full of loot. They wake Mum and Dad still asleep in their bed and trumpet the news: “Happy Christmas,” like birds. Limbs tangle and voices collide in a bright swirl: a family devotion. Then I gather them one by one in a hug, kiss their head, and breathe out. The flurry of December has ended. I made it. Peace at last. By then I’ll know the secret of Mary and Joesph. It was here all along, wrapped in my arms: my family are all that I need to make it to Christmas.