Nativity

One of the great thrills of parenthood is seeing your child in their Christmas performance.


It isn’t something that other parents mention to you the way they knowingly gloat as they inform you that you will not sleep for many years. They always succeed in mentioning how much it will sting every time you urinate after you give birth, but fail to tell you how wonderful it is the first time your child takes possession of you and calls you “my Mum.” They will tell you tales of late nights and worry with croup, never the gratitude you feel when they recover and start nagging you for chocolate biscuits. Their warnings don’t include that the nerves felt on the first day at school, the tears that are cried, will be yours. Your mini despot won’t even see your tears, too engrossed are they in escaping your daily tyranny and starting the next chapter of their life.

Such is the importance of your child’s first Nativity performance. It is a great unifier. There will rarely be a dry eye in the house. It doesn’t matter where your religious beliefs lie, indeed whether you have any. Your child, your baby, is in front of you performing with all their might, and for a time you believe it, you suspend your belief, your knowledge, your education because you know that they believe it. All that matters is maintaining that belief, in helping them along, in clapping and roaring for not just your child, but all of them.

When I was in the Nativity, I was a shepherd. I was desperate to be an angel but I didn’t get the gig. My line? “We are but poor shepherds, we have no gifts.” What happened the night my mum showed up? I fluffed the line. I had an absence halfway through, and didn’t really know what was going on.

The Boy was a shepherd at his first Nativity play, when we were in Earlsfield. He learnt lines to a song, repeated them perfectly. I beamed with pride at his performance.

This year, he was an innkeeper. He had songs, dance routines, and one line. His performance wasn’t the most polished. It was the most heartfelt. He did it all with such enthusiasm, such love that the joy he felt couldn’t be contained on the stage, and he was cheered by the other parents. He even offered Mary and Joseph a room at our house, as we have a spare bedroom, and he thought it was too cold for them to stay in the stable, what with Mary being pregnant and all. The lad was rightly applauded. My heart felt like it could burst I was so proud of him.

This year, Lid had a carol concert at pre school. There was a row of those tiny nursery school chairs for the parents to sit on. All the children were wearing Christmas hats that they had made, adorned with glitter and jewels, with a giant star stuck to the front. When she saw me, she flew at me shouting “Mummy, mummy, it’s my mum!” She didn’t really need to do anything else. There was a lump in my throat right there.

I sat down, and listened as my daughter sang through various songs, always with her beautiful beaming smile shining out to the audience. As she sang “Twinkle twinkle little star”, she looked at me, winked and changed the words to “Lily wants a chocolate bar.”

Simply, she was quite the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen or ever will see. Perfection in a glitter adorned hat.

These are the things, the moments, that are your reward. Your reward for the times when you don’t get to sleep, for when they are driving you utterly crazy. There will be many along the way, and they are worth looking out for. For every bad thing the cynic can tell you, I can give you 3 wonderful things. They are there. Enjoy them.