REWRITING FAMILY

(there are wishes a child makes with absolute certainty that Santa Claus can do anything)

On Sunday, my son came home after four days with his dad. When he arrived, he hugged me tightly. One of those hugs that, if it were up to me, would last forever. The kind that takes us somewhere we find hard to leave. His brother hugged him too. Covered him in kisses, as if he hadn’t seen him in an eternity. And, for him, four days really are an eternity.

We played so much. The house filled with noise again. With running. With laughter. With two brothers together again. And then it was time for bed. I put them both to bed. This weekend, my youngest had seen some father Christmas figures and, ever since, he hasn’t talked about anything else. He wants to sing Christmas songs. He wants to talk about Father Christmas. He wants to know about presents. He wants to know about wishes. And yesterday was no different.

Before he falls asleep, I usually sing him the songs he likes. But yesterday, all he wanted was Christmas songs. So, I sang. I sang until he fell asleep. Then I told my eldest a story. And he interrupted it with endless questions. As always. When the story ended, he started crying. “Mum, tonight I’m going to sleep sad because Dad isn’t here” he said. He paused. And continued: “I wanted Dad and Mum here”.

I explained it to him. For the thousandth time. That we now live in different homes. That on Wednesday he would be sleeping at Dad’s again. That missing someone was a good thing because it was a sign of love. That we loved each other very much. The same words. The same explanations. The same things I always say, because I don’t really know what else to say. But he insisted. He didn’t want this. He wanted Mum to go to Dad’s house with him. He wanted Dad to stay here with us. He wanted both of us. In the same house. Together. And I did something I rarely do. I changed the subject.

• “Oh, my love, Mum is sad about this too” He looked at me.
• “And do you know what I do when I’m sad?” I continued.

He said no.

• “I think about good things to make myself feel better. Shall we think about good things?”

He said yes. And then he started talking about Father Christmas. About what he was going to ask him for. He asked me what I was going to think about. I took the opportunity.

• “I’m going to think about all the mischief the elf is going to get up to this year. Do you think he’ll come back to our house?”

He said yes. Of course he would. And then he told me he already knew what he was going to ask Father Christmas for. More football equipment. And then he added:

• “And that Mum and Dad would always be in the same homes”.

He explained what he meant. We could sleep at Dad’s house. We could sleep at Mum’s house. But all together. I explained to him that he couldn’t ask Father Christmas for that. That it was something only Mum and Dad could decide. That Father Christmas sometimes couldn’t give us everything we wanted. “Yes, he can” he said. “The elves help”.

And I tried to explain it to him. I gave him an example I made up there and then. I told him that when I was little, I wanted a real dolphin. That I had asked for one for Christmas. But that Christmas, I had received other things instead. And that my parents, his grandparents, had explained to me that Father Christmas couldn’t give me a dolphin because dolphins can’t live in houses.

He asked me if I had been sad. I said yes. But that then I understood. I understood that dolphins were happier in the sea. And so, I was happy too. Because I knew they were where they were meant to be. In the sea. He thought about it.

“Then I’m going to be sad” he added. And then he said that maybe he would get his wish. Because he had also made that wish for his birthday, when he blew out the candles. And that was when my heart shrank. Because I didn’t want the only wish my son makes on his birthday to be a wish I already know won’t come true. I didn’t want him to believe that all he had to do was ask hard enough. That the elves could fix it. That Father Christmas could bring two homes together. That he could make Mum and Dad live together again.

I wanted to be able to tell him yes. I wanted to be able to tell him maybe. I wanted to leave that hope there, untouched. But I couldn’t. I kissed him. And the conversation ended there. Then he looked at me and said, “Hug me”. And I hugged him. I held him close. I stayed there. Without explaining anything else. Without trying to find more beautiful words. Just there. With one arm around that little body. Listening to his breathing. And his brother’s. Until he fell asleep.

And I kept thinking about the wish he had made. More football equipment. And Mum and Dad always in the same home. It is so simple when it comes out of a child’s mouth. So simple that it almost hurts more. He didn’t ask for anything impossible. He didn’t ask for a toy that doesn’t exist. He didn’t ask for a present that was too expensive. He didn’t ask for the world. He asked for Mum. He asked for Dad. He asked for both of us together. And, to him, that should have been as simple as asking for a Christmas present.

Perhaps that is why it hurts me so much. Because he still believes everything can be fixed. That if he asks nicely. That if he wishes hard enough. That if the elves help. That if Father Christmas has time… And I know there are things that even Father Christmas can’t change. There are things that don’t depend on magic. Or elves. Or wishes. Or how much a child asks for something. And that is one of the hardest things to explain to a child.

That some wishes don’t come true. Even when they are made with all your heart. Even when they are made by a child who did nothing to make life turn out this way. Even when, deep down, all they want is for their family to be in the same place. I stayed there holding him. And I thought about the dolphin. About the story I had made up to explain to him that sometimes what we want isn’t what can happen. But there is a difference. Dolphins are happier in the sea. And I don’t know if any child should ever have to learn to accept that their parents are happier living in different homes.

I don’t know if any child should ever have to hear that love continues to exist even when a family no longer fits under the same roof. I don’t know if any parent is ever truly prepared to hear this. “Mum, I wanted Dad and Mum here”. And then realise that there is no beautiful answer. No story that can fix it. No elf who can help. There is only a hug. And that night, that is what I gave him. A hug. I held him close. Until he fell asleep.

Maybe tomorrow he will be happy again. Maybe he will talk about football. Maybe he will ask for a Christmas song. Maybe, for a few days, he will forget about this wish. But I won’t forget. Because there are wishes a mother carries with her forever. And this was one of them. The wish of a little boy who only wanted one thing. For Mum and Dad to be in the same home. Not because that is what I want. I don’t. But because it is what he still believes would make everything simpler. And perhaps that is one of the hardest parts of being a mother after a separation: knowing that there are wishes our children make that we cannot make come true, even when we would give anything to spare them the pain of having to understand that.