Yes, It Hurts That NONE Of My Four Children Want Me For Christmas… But This Is How Im Taking My Revenge MARION MCGILVARY

The other day, I was talking to one of my son Harry’s ex-girlfriends, who has remained a close friend of the family. I tentatively asked if she wanted children.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m only sad that I’ll have nobody to look after me in my old age.’

I couldn’t help it, I laughed in her face.

I و to و of – تفاصيل مهمة

‘Have you met me?’ I asked. ‘I have four kids, but do you see any of them snuggling up to me in my dotage?’

OK, I’m not quite there yet – I’m in my late 60s – but I’m in the waiting room and, frankly, not spoiled for loving companionship. That’s mostly fine – I’m free, independent and ­outgoing and I don’t need my kids on 24/7 alert.

But I have to admit I was taken aback when I asked my children what they were doing for Christmas and realised that none of their plans included me.

Harry’s ex, Priya, looked shocked. I gently pointed out that she lives on the other side of the world from her parents so she’s not exactly setting an example for staying close to her family – though she does go back home to South America every other year at Christmas.

I و I’m و – – تفاصيل مهمة

Sometimes I wonder if mine would cross the road. I jest. Well, sort of.

I’ll be honest. Christmas isn’t my favourite time of year. I love the lead-up: I have the huge tree and the light-up alpine village model, the bunting, the home-made wreaths. I decorate the house like Santa’s grotto – and always did, even before I had grandchildren.

I’ve been bringing out the same Mexican nativity scene and making my own Christmas crackers, cards and table ­decorations since before my own four children, now grown up and aged from 33 to 40, were born.

But the actual day I could live without. I sort of wish that I could magically implode the second the presents are open and the meal is eaten.

the و I و and – تفاصيل مهمة

The anticlimax and the dead days that follow always seem to be steeped in gloom.

Still, everyone knows Christmas is for family. But family sometimes isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. ­Apparently. Or is it just me who is the gift, like toe socks, that nobody wants.

the و I و is – تفاصيل مهمة

For the past two years I’ve spent the holiday with my eldest ­daughter, Anne. She has two infants and nothing makes Christmas seem as magical as the delight of small ­children, even if one of them has colic and screams for 20 hours of the day, as the younger one did last year. Nevertheless, it was a joy to be with them.

They don’t do Santa, Anne having decided (possibly after the trauma of her discovery at the age of seven that the tooth fairy didn’t exist) that there would be no mythical strange man climbing down their non-existent chimney leaving gifts. Santa in their house is just a nice old man in a red suit printed on their holiday pyjamas.

This year, they are all going to their other grandmother’s house in Edinburgh. So far, so fair.

I mean, it’s only right that she gets the year when everyone is super-cute and nobody is ­screaming like a banshee. I can’t complain. I’m blessed that my grandchildren live nearby and I get to spend so much time with them otherwise.

the و that و their – تفاصيل مهمة

I wouldn’t swap it, nappies, ­sniffles, sleepless nights and all. I actually love feeling ­useful. I can’t begrudge my daughter getting a bit of a rest at her mother-in-law’s. She deserves it.

So I spoke to my younger son, Harry, who lives in London.

‘I’ll come up to you at Christmas,’ I said.

Surely he would be delighted to have me? After all, he and his pony – I mean huge labradoodle – spent than a month with me over Christmas three years ago when he was between flats, the dog ­terrorising my cats and digging a hole in my sofa, and my son leaving me to walk said dog in the freezing rain while he scrolled through a ­dating app.

to و my و he – تفاصيل مهمة

‘Erm, I’m not sure there will be room. My flatmates might be there,’ he muttered, somewhat shiftily. I gave him the glare commonly known as the ‘Mummy Stare’, all but reminding him of the five stitches I received without ­anaesthetic when he was born.

‘What?’ he snapped, the look ­failing to instil fear or guilt as it once did. ‘I don’t know if they are going away for Christmas!’

I get it. I do. Kids grow up and have their own lives. It’s what you want for them. You just sort of hope that life will occasionally include you

for و I و you – تفاصيل مهمة

I offered to sleep on the couch. You’d think I had suggested incest.

‘I dunno,’ he mumbled.

So that’s not going to happen, obviously. At best, I’ll be an unwanted guest; at worst, I’ll be ruining his plans to spend a cosy Christmas with whichever new romance he has on the go.

My younger daughter, Ali, lives in south London. She hasn’t been to my house in Oxford for over a year and hasn’t been home for Christmas since before lockdown. She and her partner only get the week before Christmas off together and they usually go away.

to و Christmas و and – تفاصيل مهمة

Last year, he invited his mother. (See what I mean? His mother). This year, she told me that she was going to The Ivy for Christmas lunch. Oh nice, I thought, and ­suggested I join them. Her face fell. You’d think I’d asked for a kidney (let’s hope that is never a reality).

Then she began backtracking, saying they might go to Korea instead. Like, can you get any bloody further away from your mother?

Again, I get it. I do. Kids grow up and have their own lives. It’s what you want for them. You just sort of hope that life will occasionally include you.

I do still have one other child – my elder son, Will. But he isn’t even worth considering. He lives in ­Scotland and has called me exactly twice in the past year: Mother’s Day and my birthday.

I و and و you – تفاصيل مهمة

He’s a perfectly delightful man and always kind and loving whenever I manage to get him to answer his phone. Frankly, astronauts are probably reachable than he is. But he’s always been rather vague and in his own world.

I offered to visit him back in ­October. He never got back to me. There seems little point of even suggesting Christmas at his. It could be March before he responds. He also has a widowed mother-in-law and only one spare room so, naturally, she gets first dibs.

I do actually still have a partner. I try him next. He looks aghast. ‘You know I always go to my daughter!’ he says, at a pitch only dogs can hear. Yep. Except the year he got Covid and I had to look after him and missed Christmas with my family in case I infected them.

I suggested he might like to stay home. ‘Don’t be selfish,’ he responded.

I و to و he – تفاصيل مهمة

I will refrain from recording my reply to this statement. But there were many words beginning with ‘F’ before I told him to stuff his Christmas in the ­manner of a ­turkey and stomped off in the direction of a large gin.

As I told Priya, God help you if you think your kids are auto­matically going to take care of you as you get frail. Family is a bonus. Not a guarantee of anything. They have their own hopes and desires and, eventually, families. And ­sometimes, frankly, they let you down when you expect them to rally round.

I always hoped you’d look after me in my old age, I joked to Priya (this saintly girl claims to love old people). ‘Oh, I still will,’ she laughed. (I’m getting the contracts drawn up as we speak.)

But you’ll make your own family, I told her, from friends. It’s what we all do. I’ve got several chums who have invited me to join them and I know I’d be welcome, but I don’t want to be a hanger-on at someone else’s family celebrations.

I و you و to – تفاصيل مهمة

I don’t want or need a pity ­invitation. Nor do I want to do the whole virtue-signalling volunteering for Crisis at Christmas thing, as one of my divorced acquaintances did one year, ­leaving her £4 million home to wash dishes for the unhoused before joining friends for supper to be sniffy as they drank Moet over stuffed goose, as if a day in Marigolds had transformed her into Mother Teresa.

I will donate as usual and do hypocrisy in the comfort of my own home, thank you.

So, I have decided to stay at home. And I’m actually looking forward to it. As my partner said, I’m going to be selfish. There will be no bickering. No complaints. No laundry. No juggling ­vegetarianism and gluten ­intolerance, no ganging up on me if I forget to be politically correct and get a ­pronoun wrong.

No disappointed looks over the carefully chosen gifts nobody likes or pretend joy over the socks. And no washing-up. Instead I’ll eat paté and ­cornichons and a mini Christmas pudding from Waitrose. I’ll watch Selling Sunset on Netflix and sit in my pyjamas all day.

and و to و No – تفاصيل مهمة

I’ll have marron glacés and an espresso martini for breakfast or even beans on toast if I feel like it.

And on Boxing Day I shall get on a plane to New York to stay in my friend Judith’s plush, Upper East Side, fully-concierged ­apartment and cat-sit while she’s in Aspen, Colorado. I’ll bathe in her marble tub and order in ­Chinese food that the porter will deliver to my door.

She will return for New Year, when we will celebrate with a gang of other NY chums that I’ve amassed over the years.

That’s the answer to ageing, whatever your situation – friends. And friends are for life, not just for Christmas.

to و in و the – تفاصيل مهمة