The Christmas grinch

Photo / Getty Images

When it comes to Christmas spirit I need to have a long, hard think about my attitude, according to my 11-year-old daughter. Most years, my disinclination to "dress" the house for the Christmas season with tinsel, fairy lights and a neon Santa on the roof causes problems.

This year my insistence that, instead of killing a pine tree, we use the one I have had growing in a pot in the front garden all year has been seen as nothing short of heresy.

"She's doing it again," I overheard her say to her father.

"Don't worry, I'll sort it," he replied, shortly before he did something with his hands which I can only assume is some sort of Homie G street sign for "be cool". Or in his case: "be cool even if I'm too old to do street signs with my gnarly old hands".

This is not new territory for my husband. He has spent the past 15 years trying to instil in me some sort of celebratory spirit around Christmas.

As my ex-husband reminded me recently, Christmas in my former marriage consisted of a last-minute race around the shops on Christmas Eve, packing the two toddlers in the car and driving down to his family in Tauranga, where we promptly plonked the kids under their impressive Christmas tree and lay down on the couch for two weeks.

It worked for us and the kids seemed to be spoiled rotten whenever we opened our eyes briefly or wandered into the kitchen for more turkey and cake.

My current husband, though, would have none of it. Every year enormous trees are sacrificed, and a whole day is set aside decorating it with heirloom decorations.

Heirloom decorations? Who makes heirlooms out of baubles, stars and tinsel? Tables begin groaning with Christmas delicacies weeks before the day and children are whipped up into an anticipatory fever.

When we had a child together I accused him of child abuse when he dragged the poor poppet year after year to the mall to get the "traditional family picture with Santa".

He would return with a petrified child and a picture of her crying her eyes out in terror on the lap of some sweaty guy in a Santa suit.

Her first Christmas was such a production - with her four older siblings in starring roles - that halfway through opening her presents she cried weakly: "No more Santa!"

"Hilarious!" he said.

But finally, our child succumbed and became Daddy's little Christmas fairy. Now, from that first taste of cheap chocolate gleaned from her Advent calendar on December 1, she sees it as her mission to "create a magical Christmas".

And a living tree in a pot does not a magical Christmas make.

Which is a change from our usual disagreements which occur daily at precisely 3.20pm when she walks in the door from school.

"Shut the door please," I say.

"Why? It's hot in here."

"Because I want it shut."

"Doesn't need to be shut."

And then we move on to the: "If you're going to eat icecream now then you can't have any for dessert," discussion.

"I'm hot, I can't believe you're denying me the right to cool down."

"Your choice."

"I can't believe you are forcing me to choose."

"Can I help it if you're having menopausal hot flushes at the age of 11?"

And so on.

"Why don't you like Christmas?" she asked this week. "Everyone likes Christmas."

"It's not that I don't like it," I replied. "I just can't be bothered with all the fuss and the materialism.

"And I think you'll find that the real meaning of Christmas is about being with family, not how much tinsel you can cram into one house."

And then we went outside to look at the tree in the pot I had been growing all year. It had let me down badly and stood barely half a metre tall.

She gave me a look I recognised with horror as the clever one I use to express the sentiment of: "Oh come on, get a grip,".

It was sorted. The 2m Christmas tree arrives this weekend.