Here we are again....

I look longingly at the sweet morsels in the glass cabinet. I get to choose some today, but they aren't for me. My favourite is the pan au chocolat, but there aren't any there today anyway. The group at the office could enjoy raspberry, white chocolate, cinnamon brioche....

I collected my coffee and boxed up muffins, and headed back up the hill.

My knees groaned and I winced. I paused at the top of the hill to catch my breath.

Nyah has so lovingly packed a healthy lunch and a little container of nuts. I know that sugar is my downfall, and she is trying so hard to give me alternatives.

But I still struggle. My doctor says my blood sugar results are 'surprisingly good.' Surprisingly, because I am technically obese. My elevated heart rate is within the realms of normal, but would probably come down with better cardio vascular fitness and some weight loss.

But nothing seems urgent. The quarter of a cinnamon brioche and quarter of a raspberry and white chocolate muffin that found their way into my hands and into my mouth do not suggest a sense of urgency.

Back in 2012 and 2013 I weighed ten kilograms more, and struggled with self loathing because of it. I was tormented by a shape I didn't recognise and struggled with feminist ideals of body positivity vs not actually feeling like myself.

Now I feel more like myself than ever, yet my body is still trying to betray me.

I came to realise that the motivators around external validation and appearance held more weight (pun not intended) than very real health concerns. I don't have concerns about how I look, and am having fun with my appearance. But I took a panadol this afternoon to stop my back hurting, and I hobble when I get out of my chair to walk to the kitchen.

As I head towards being closer to my 'mid forties' than my 'early forties' my back, my knees, my heart are all telling me that I need to do something. I even have a loving partner to help me achieve it.

Why the resistance? Or not even resistance - a simple lack of will. Why do the motivators of appearance matter than the potential of reduced mobility and energy?

Maybe its time to look back to another part of 2012 where my therapist turned over rocks and found that lack of self care is linked to lack of self worth.

I might know myself better than ever before, but the question is, have I learned to love myself?

Who am I? And who are you?

At the moment there is a strong presence, both online and elsewhere, of women who are pushing very hard against a proposal for the New Zealand Government to allow people to change their birth certificates based on how they identify, and nothing else.

As someone with transgender friends and acquaintances, and with a number of friends and acquaintances with trans children, the aggressive actions and words of a small number of self-proclaimed 'feminists' is, at first, simply bewildering.

The issues around the self identification of trans women has come up before. Family First started making noise about a trans girl at a girls' only school. Some of the opposition to this on my social media came from surprising quarters. The biggest surprise to me was someone I'd known since we were politically aware teenagers, who expressed concern about 'men' in women's spaces.

And this ultimately is what has blown up recently. That trans women were actually men, deceiving us all in order to access women's spaces, and that trans men were butch lesbians who had been forced to transition to be men.

But once you scratch beneath the surface, it all become much more troubling (if that's possible - the original idea is troubling enough) and very, very personal.

The crux of anti trans activists campaign is around biology. "What is a woman?" they will collectively bark. The assertion is that women are oppressed on the basis of their biology, therefore trans women, not possessing the same biological construction, don't have a place in feminism.

Where we get into a really bizarre intersection, if you like, is that old school Lesbians (with-a-capital-L) seem to be joining forces with conservative Christians to push against the idea of gender being something determined in one's own mind rather than by genitalia.

I am struggling to keep up with the science speak which explains away the fallacies of biological essentialism, because before we even get to that, it doesn't even really even make sense on a logical level.

As for getting personal? Yeah...I feel that it starts to reach into the personal. Maybe I should be grateful its given me a chance to examine my own identity (again? really?) but I don't think my trans sisters (and brothers) are feeling it.

For what its worth, here are my theories. I want to start with my position, which is that trans women are women, and trans men are men. Just so we're clear about that.

I am very puzzled about conservatives and Lesbians (with-a-capital-L) being bedfellows in this, as I would have thought their position on biology would have been polar opposites.

By Lesbians with a capital L, I mean Lesbians for whom this label is a cultural identity. Trust me - I've done a lot of exploring around identity, and lesbian identity in particular. I have done a lot of reading, and I've done a bit of exploring around Lesbian identities in the New Zealand context. I went to a workshop at the Women's Centre; I've been to the Charlotte Museum. I've read. A lot. My bibliography is on this blog. I belong to online lesbian groups. I explore what it might mean to identify as a lesbian, and have spent a lot of time considering whether this is my identity or not. In fact, the current whirl of commentary around identity pulls it back to the front of my mind.

My exploration has led me to the conclusion that at this point, I'm happy to wear the label 'lesbian,' but it sits alongside a number of identities. Probably the main ones I like to have it sit beside are Mother, Partner, Writer, Photographer, Woman - not necessarily in that order. And not necessarily with capital letters, either. My 'lesbian identity' could mean that I am a woman who is in a romantic and sexual relationship with another woman. It could mean that I am attracted to other women. I could mean that I am a 'woman identified woman who doesn't fuck men.' All of them would be true, but the strength of any of them depends on what's going on around me on any given day, really.

I have spent a bit of time playing with identities. The veritable rainbow of identities meant I didn't have to shoehorn myself into anything before I was ready. But what is really interesting is the defensiveness of Lesbians of their particular identity. "If everyone is calling sexuality fluid, then where does that leave us?"

Indeed.

So when the idea that butch lesbians - the classic lesbian stereotype - are being pushed into transitioning into being men starts circulating, then the heads are thrown back and the howling starts. And understandably so - the patriarchy literally picking off women to bring into its fold is a pretty gross concept. If it were true.

But what of the movements of feminists to stop women being shoehorned into ideas of femininity? Cis-gendered, heterosexual women are no longer beholden to high femme ideals of appearance, or pushed into old fashioned gender roles and compulsory heterosexual life. Maybe once upon a time Lesbians were radical in their refusal (and psychological inability) to shackle themselves to the heterosexual nuclear family ideal. But now cis-gendered, heterosexual women can make those choices, too. So what then determines the 'lesbian identity' beyond who you want to have a primary romantic and/or sexual relationship with? For me personally, hinging a major part of my identity on who I am in a relationship with got me in enough trouble the first time, so I am not inclined to go there again. In the circles I move in at least, the fact that my romantic partner is also a woman is of no consequence. At work, my young, Christian, heterosexual and betrothed colleague and I regularly talk about our partners without any sense of novelty or strangeness. With the advent of marriage equality and the treatment of women living in a same sex relationship as equal to a heterosexual couple, has the lesbian identity become so assimilated into every day life as to be invisible? Lesbians pushed - and still push - against sexuality being defined on men's terms, for men's gaze and men's pleasure. To be fair, hetero women do this too, but don't feel the same resistance in the push as their lesbian sisters. Straight life is still the easier road. Is then welcoming women-who-once-were-men and identify as lesbians a step too far? We all come at this from our own life experiences, and maybe its just that mine is of the latter - all women pushing against men defining our lives, our course, our futures, for us.

So then lets look at the conservative point of view? If trans women are not women on the basis of the equipment they possess - and I'll take that to be uteruses, vaginas and breasts - then I'm going to go straight to the conservative assumption of women being defined as mothers - or potential mothers. I'm figuring that the conservatives think trans women aren't really women because they can't breed. But where does that leave women with fertility issues? Women who opt for surgical sterilisation?

So an identity crisis and some biological essentialism collides and makes a strange combination. Lesbians with a capital L who aren't inclined to act on any kind of social mandate to reproduce via sexual activity with men - thrown in with people who think that women are biological vessels to do just that.

I pondered then, as a mother, as a cis gendered woman, as someone who has spent a significant amount of time in a heterosexual relationship, and only a quarter of that time in a homosexual relationship - where does that leave people like me?

I can tell you that biology does its job. My four children are a testament to that. My four children are also a testament to the fact that fulfilling some kind of biological imperative wasn't awful, either. Biology means the body does what it needs to do. And mine happened to do it with a reasonable amount of feel good factor. (Yup, that added a layer of confusion when many of the ideas presented to you around sexuality can be so...well...essentialist)

And there are some people for whom it is awful, but we'll put up with it because that's what women do, right? And there are some people for whom it is an absolute non-negotiable not-going-there. How about that? A mix of social and cultural conditioning, and some people with resolute certainty. Certainly no essentialism there.

What everyone is arguing about is the brain. Trans people want to identify as how they feel, not how they look.

To be blunt, my body is going to behave all the ways a 'biological female' should on a basic animal level. Right now I am nearing the end of my reproductive life, and my body is telling me all about it by trying to get in some last ditch attempts at luring me into baby making. Biologically, I could have had what? fifteen? children by now. Socially, that would have been ridiculous.

Humans are way more sophisticated than just being animals. You and me baby, we are more than just mammals. What I discovered in a relationship with a woman was more than just appropriate biological responses to stimuli in order to ..umm..smooth the way... make reproduction happen. I discovered desire. Intimacy. Longing. Love. Satisfaction. Contentment. Joy.

These are experiences peculiar to being human, and as humans we are complicated.

If the two schools of trans exclusionary activists get their way we may as well live inside the Handmaids Tale.

If we are into biological essentialism being the root of identity, then lesbians with a capital L should be behaving like biological females and mating with men and producing young, regardless of what their brains tell them. And likewise with the conservatives, who have determined that the possession of certain organs with the potential for reproduction is the hallmark of woman, regardless of a woman's potential to wear all sorts of other identities alongside Woman and/or Mother. Where do we sign up, Commander?

Never mind the human experience, in all its tumultuous, complicated glory - of the things that go on in our brains - our hearts. Of the joy of the human experience. And the human experience of determining who we are.

And that is what it is in the end.

To be human.

Who would deny someone that?

#keepsakecollecting

"The division of labour in the family was that I worked to support the family while you stayed at home collecting keepsakes and the like."

Last night I went to an orchestral performance where the conductor explained, and then the orchestra performed, pieces from Handel's Water Music.

As I listened, I was taken back to a time where music was a part of my everyday life.

From starting to learn the recorder in primary school, I moved on to the flute as a tween. As a teenager, I belonged to a youth orchestra, and played such illustrious venues as the Maidment Theatre (RIP) My mother drove me too far to attend lessons that were far too expensive. From the point of view of a parent now, it was absurd, but I am grateful for the experience.

When I left school and moved away from home, I was able to keep playing the flute in the church worship team in the city I'd moved to for art school.

When I was 18, I dropped out of art school, I stopped going to church, and I went to work full time.

At some point, my husband and I must have had some financial issues, and I sold my flute to pay a bill.

I have never played since.

In 2006, my husband was subject to an employment dispute. He was 'instantly dismissed' from his job.

I was heavily pregnant with our third baby. I was working part time doing home based daycare so that I would have my own income and not be dependent on his salary for my own personal expenditure - the odd cup of coffee, clothing and whatnot.

I had a collection of vintage toys that I had established over three years. It had become a bit of a hobby to acquire the ones from my childhood, or to find tatty ones on Trade Me, restore them, and sell them and see how much money I could make. I traded them, chatted with people online about them, gasped at the prices some of them went for on eBay.

The power bill came in and we panicked.

I sold all my vintage toys to make sure we could keep the power on.

When I left him seven years later, I was told that I had screwed his career.

“get preschooler dressed, walk to school,go to vet for cats flea treatment, go to shop for vege top up, go home and get preschooler lunch, walk to kindy, stay at kindy for 1/2 an hour to see new chickens, walk home from kindy, give toddler lunch, drive to kindy and school then directly to cricket skills clinic, do grocery shopping, drop off friend, son haircut, then to soccer training, back to get preschooler from daycare, Fruitworld for vege top up, back to collect son from soccer, pick up other son from friend's house, make dinner, rinse dishes and load dishwasher..” (actual lists sourced from my Facebook statuses) 

Staying home and collecting keepsakes and the like.

Five Weddings

1981

There was a young woman, and a prince. She was only just twenty years old. He was thirty three.

I was five.

The young woman was portrayed as shy, pensive. Beautiful. Pure. The prince wasn't handsome, but he had power. He would be the King one day. So by marrying the Prince, the young woman would become a real live princess!!

To mark such a Special Occasion, I was going to be allowed to watch The Wedding on television. Late at night. What a treat!

The young woman arrived at the beautiful old abbey in a froth of silk and lace. She cast her eyes down and batted her lashes. She was walked down the aisle to her Prince by her father.

After the formalities, they drove away from the church in an open horse drawn carriage to live happily ever after. They looked so happy and it was like a fairytale.

I was in awe.

1995

I walked down the aisle of my childhood church, resplendent in polyester and guipure lace and pearl beading. I had found my prince and I was going to live happily ever after too.

I was nineteen.

2005

The young prince and princess did not have a happily ever after. They were happy for a while, but it was all wrong. Just wrong. The prince was in love with someone else. But all the rules and the eyes of everyone. The fresh young woman was the best choice for everyone else.

The prince and princess parted ways, and a year later she was dead in a terrible accident.

The prince was now a middle aged man. He returned to the woman he should have married.

They had a civil ceremony. No abbey this time. No fairytale. Pain and heartache - so much hurt, but they came back to love - without rules. With their rules.

I was twenty nine.

2011

There was a young prince and a young woman. He was third in line to the throne, and she worked for her family business in marketing and design. She was educated and self reliant.

I was thirty five.

I assembled with other women to celebrate. We dressed up in hats and we ate English food. The Men assembled at another home to watch the rugby. Because this wedding business is women's stuff. Pfftt.

The young woman arrived at the beautiful abbey with her simple gown with a touch of lace. She walked down the aisle to her prince. He was dressed like his father was in 1981 - resplendent in red.

My daughter was four.

2018

There was a young prince and a young woman. She had been married before. She was a biracial American actor. She had already made ripples about gender stereotypes before she was a teenager by writing an objection to the idea that only women engage in household tasks.

The young prince had talked openly about the pain of losing his mother. About how important it is to feel. To talk. To be open.

I was forty two.

I hadn't watched the television drama that the young woman was the star of. I knew the prince because I had seen his whole life since before he was even in existence.

I largely ignored the build up to the wedding. In the last few years I had become cynical about marriage. It was an oppressive patriarchal tradition based in the concept of women as chattels. I understood the desire to make a public statement about the person you wanted to commit your life to, but I wasn't sure how feminist 'a wedding' was.

But the people watching was fun. The television ended up being on, and there were so many interesting people to watch, snuggled up on the couch with my partner. A renowned human rights lawyer and her actor husband. A world beating sportswoman. A popular and powerful media personality. A famous entertainer and his husband. And the prince's family.

The young woman arrived at the beautiful chapel in a plain white dress. With her mother, who had raised her on her own. The Mother had cornrows and a glittery nose piercing. 

The young woman walked up the aisle -  accompanied by the young prince's father part of the way, but she started on her own, and she finished on her own.

The young couple had the traditions of their cultures interwoven in the ceremony. Anglican formality and black American gospel energy.

They left the church and drove away in a horse drawn carriage. It looked like a fairytale.

My daughter was eleven.

She had gone to bed and slept through the whole thing.

Being wrong helped me be better

I have always been a rule follower and a people pleaser. When I was about five years old I nicked a lolly from LD Nathan at the local shopping centre. I hid under my bed to eat it and was consumed by the guilt about what I had done.

It was a perfectly natural part of growing up. Push against the rules society has in place, and your conscience will guide you as to what is right. I knew I had done the wrong thing, and I felt so icky about it, I didn't do it again.

In my life to date, I generally have followed the rules - there was the odd wayward moment as a teenager, but given the standards I had set for myself, I didn't do too badly. I was an earnest Christian, so at the time being felt up by a boyfriend felt like a mortal sin, so never mind doing the stuff many teenagers were up to (experimenting with alcohol, drugs, sex...)

But a couple of problems started presenting themselves. The rules around me started changing, so the world in which I had signed up to a particular life wasn't the same world I was living in now.

That was partly me - as I met new people, my world expanded. I met people of different faiths, of no faith, who were sole parents, gay parents. All super, super smart. All very kind. And good.

Wait a minute...

In the past I'd tsk tsked at the gays, the single parents, the people who had sex with people they weren't married to (or going to marry) people who weren't married..... you get the picture.

And so I started questioning everything I had signed up to to date. Marriage. Babies. Being a stay at home parent for so long. When my mother took a controversial route out of this world, it started me on a long journey of wondering where I had been, where I was heading, and what rules applied any more.

Then I fell for her.... and I was in a right mess.

I had made a promise to someone else when I was 18 but at 37 I didn't want to keep the promise any more. What kind of person did that make me?

But was anyone a particular 'kind of person?' Or were we all just in a changing world in which we needed to adapt?

If I'd seen more lesbians as a teenager, would things have been different? If every single family I had contact with hadn't been a heteronormative, nuclear family, would things have been different? If I'd seen  same sex couples, single parents, working Mums in the world around me, would things have been different? If my mother hadn't spat "You aren't queer, are you?" at me in an accusatory fashion, would things have been different?

I can take responsibility for my choices, but the broader issue is that choices are determined by social norms, social standing, circumstances. 2013 was a very different world to 1994, but I was still expected to keep a promise I made when I was little more than a child.

Everything could have been handled more sensitively. I am not sure turning the rules upside down immediately makes me a liar or a cheat. It makes me a human who found herself in a difficult situation where hurt was inevitable.

I think the answer to not making a promise you can't keep is to be realistic and careful about what you promise in the first place. Should we be placing ourselves in a position of absolutes, or is life more about ongoing negotiation and re-evaluation?

What are all the rules about? Who benefits from them? Are they kind? Are they fair? Do they really matter?

I had been in a cultural vacuum for so much of my life. That cultural vacuum was very definite about rights and wrongs. And you know what - definitive rights and wrongs have a high comfort factor. Everyone knows where they stand. If you don't fit in, you're in trouble. But you know what's what.

I have been wrong, but I am only human. Being wrong makes me more sympathetic to the people I used to judge.

Living outside the black and white box requires more energy. More negotiation. More weighing up. But I also think it has more capacity for kindness. Black and white rights and wrong often produce confused individuals who cannot see past not fitting in the box. Black and white rights and wrong produce punitive consequences that don't make anyone's life better. Black and white rights and wrongs stop dialogue and honest conversation and stifle growth. Black and white rights and wrongs reduce the capacity to see things beyond your own scope and beyond your own concept of righteousness. It stops you seeing the people behind the monochrome.

The world devoid of absolute black and white is far more scary, but it is anything but grey. It is bright in vivid colours, with love, with laughter, with tears, with challenge, with kindness.

It is a world full of life.

No world for old men

I need to explain to you why I asked you to leave my house last week.

I am continually challenged, upset and even puzzled about your attitude and behaviour.

I sent you back to Dad's after you exhibited a host of behaviours that are not ok in my household.

The continued poking at your sister, the critique of the food she had prepared,the continual talking over people and refusal to have a conversation but rather just talk louder so your voice is the only one being heard, and a refusal to wash dishes after your sister and I had prepped the meal runs the gamut from frustrating to totally unacceptable.

I think you are very confused about what love means. Love means a lot of boring shit a lot of the time. It's not sunshine and rainbows and holidays and expensive concerts.

Love has relational reciprocity. This does not mean it has conditions attached, but it does mean that I am more inclined to gift a concert ticket to someone who plans a birthday dinner or clears dishes without being asked than someone who tries to wear me down in negotiations over a basic instruction.

It's calling you out when you are being loud, so that your future partner isn't continually talked over.

It's rostering you to wash dishes, so that you will be a good guest when you visit friends and relatives.

It's trying to find the right combination of recreational screen time that doesn't invade time and space with family, so that you can practice your interpersonal and self management skills.

It's racing to parent teacher interviews even though you aren't there.

It's talking to social workers, counsellors, school leaders and lawyers about how I can nurture you through difficult emotions even when you refuse to come to my home.

Women my age are sick of men thinking we owe them something. We are sick of men talking over us. We are sick of men thinking they can discuss our appearance or ability as if we are not present.

Women my age do not want our sons to turn out like their fathers and their grandfathers.

And furthermore, we do not want our daughters being their victims.

You can bet your life that women my age are prepping their daughters for the battle of their lives. It was a battle we couldn't win, but we know the MO now, and our girls will be prepared.

So, if you would prefer to be on the right side of social change, I suggest you man up. And that doesn't mean man up to be the tough guy. It means man up and kick toxic masculinity to the curb.

Don't expect women to serve you.

Don't expect women to be ok with your loudness and constant commentary.
Don't expect women to exist to entertain you.

You are expected to participate in all parts of society, not wait for a woman to do the shit parts for you.

It's actually not much to ask.

As a woman of this age, I will always - always - love you. You might not believe it, but the love I have is the boring, timeless type. You don't have to do anything to deserve it, but nor do I have to do spectacular things to prove it. I just do boring shit and think about you every day.

You will always be loved and always be welcomed in my household. Even by women you have disrespected in the past. We all do better when we know better.

If you have no respect for me and that is going to spill over into your behaviour, know that that behaviour will not be welcome.

If you think that you get a hard time visiting a woman led household, then boy, you are in for a shock when you end up in a woman led world.

Just stop and listen and learn. You will find more peace that way.

Holding on and letting go

School finished the week before work did, which resulted in kids coming to the office with me for four out of my remaining five work days before Christmas. It’s a one hour trip each way in peak hour traffic. Most people roll their eyes and groan about the time such a commute takes, but I take full advantage of it, knowing that car rides can be a perfect chance for plenty of quality conversation.

As we rounded the corner of a street half way home, Miss 11 asked "Why are there pictures of snowmen everywhere at Christmas?" 

It’s a good question. 

from 'A Kiwi Night Before Christmas'
By Yvonne Morrison
Scholastic, 2013

As a child, I accepted without question the Northern Hemisphere imagery and stories that were a part of our summer Christmas. Before bed we'd read Clement Clarke Moore's classic poem 'The Night before Christmas' which was full of references to snow and keeping warm indoors. We put up stockings for Santa and decorated a fake pine tree. Even now my fake tree has a glass snowflake ornament adorning it. 

But increasingly, New Zealand has started to adopt more and more antipodean language and symbols into our Christmas. We have the pohutukawa  and Santa in jandals driving a tractor with sheep instead of reindeer as part of our modern Kiwi Christmas imagery. 

As our collective traditions change, so do our whanau ones.  

My childhood Christmas was a heteronormative, nuclear family affair. Mum, Dad and two kids (one boy and one girl – seriously) My grandparents (happily married for a gazillion years, of course) would come along. In the morning my brother and I would unpack the stocking of goodies Santa had brought. Later my grandparents would arrive. My Dad would give Grandpa a tour of his vege garden and Mum would cook a traditional Christmas meal – turkey, ham, trifle, salad, new potatoes. We'd pull crackers, wear silly hats, and the meal would be a sit down event with the best dinnerset and the weekend cutlery. The fancy china teaset would have its annual outing later in the day, with Christmas cake served in the lounge. We would then have a relatively sedate present opening session, with each person taking a turn at opening something under the tree. 

I have fond memories of these rituals, so when I had my own children, I was keen to replicate them. I was perhaps too assertive about it. The Christmas after Mum and Dad died, my then husband and I hosted what we called an 'Orphan's Christmas.' My sister-in-law had also lost her husband that year, so holding on to traditions and family time seemed more important than ever. 

But after Mum died, I also started questioning everything. Holding to tradition worked for a season, but thereafter I started to ask 'why?' Of so many things. 

The first year after I left my marriage, I had limited funds, but I wanted to maintain normalcy. We bought $2 Shop crap and confectionery. They went into manky old socks hung on a TV cabinet next to a tiny 4ft tree. In fact I think that first year, Nyah bankrolled Christmas, because my income was just so low I couldn't. We sat down to a fancy breakfast and still have photographic evidence that we wore the silly hats from the crackers. 

As time went by, I shook things up. Nyah's large family, with many children who also spend time in two homes, meant Christmas wasn't a sit down meal, but a wonderful cacophony of children and food and comings and goings. Presents were no longer sedately handed out and opened, but neither did each individual get one. A growing awareness of overconsumption and its deleterious effects on the planet and our wellbeing means that Christmas has become increasingly less materially oriented. My first Christmas with Nyah meant an experience of exchanging family Secret Santa gifts that were secondhand or handmade. This year we were in receipt of a fruit bowl sourced in an op shop, and we couldn't be happier. 

As time has gone on, we have to make a constant assessment about what traditions we hold on to, and what ones we need to let go. What is the value in the tradition? Maybe the bigger question amongst all of this is whether or not the tradition enhances relationships? Buying things just because it’s a particular time of year is distasteful. We did buy gifts this year. In fact we bought all our families the same gift. Not because we are lazy, but because it was something that would work across the age range (3 to 53) it would make us think, it was something to start conversations, it was something that contained a little bit of all our stories.  

My Christmas yesterday was so far removed from my childhood experience I would not have believed it. A large family sitting under a shelter in the yard while children ran and played with water balloons. Lunch was served on mismatched, op shop sourced china. There was quinoa and coriander and pomegranate and the hostess was not responsible for it all. The eldest woman in the group was not in service to everyone else. Children came and went as they moved between homes. 

And I still reassess. Children with two homes often split the day between families. Does this really work? Do we need to have children with us on Christmas day just because its considered 'the done thing,' or would it be better to spread Christmas over a few days?  

The day after Christmas we had breakfast with my brother and his family, and it was just as festive and delightful on the 26th as it would have been on the 25th. Why subject children to the stress of the moving between homes on one day when it would clearly be easier on everyone for them to stay where they are? So many conversations I have heard or seen have contained the phrase "I will have <child> for X time until Y time" - using language as if they were an inanimate object. (And that is not a criticism, as I am as likely as anyone to use this language) 

If only we were all brave enough to make that call. Social rules are strong. 

For my family, it seems important that the best traditions are ones that enhance connection, communication and relationships. Not everything was perfect over our Christmas. There was the odd harsh word, and the frustration of teenagers who refuse to engage. But nothing ever is perfect, and things that are alive rarely are.  

But we are alive. That is key. We can move. We can change.  

We can hold onto snow and holly, or we can change them to sand and pohutukawa. We can hold on for dear life to something that needs to go. And we can let go and live for today. When we keep people at the centre, then we will know what to do.