It’s that strange time between Christmas and New Year.

I know it’s Boxing Day today (at the time of writing), but have to pause for thought to know exactly what day it is, Monday? Tuesday?

There seems to be a stillness that I only notice at Christmas, the world seems muffled, time has stopped and there is a sense of the year ending, another just around the corner and a tiny glimmer of hope that the coming year will be a good one. Hope springs eternal, whilst wisdom prepares a plan B, and everything is crossed tight.

One of the great things about the post-Christmas, pre-New Year days is that the pressure is lifted.

The preparation, planning, worrying, wrapping, sticking, peeling, chopping, roasting, boiling, eating, clearing, playing, laughing, is over and now it’s time to relax, unwind, reflect and munch leftovers.

However old we are, however we spent the lead up, there is something special about these few days suspended in time.

I find myself with memories, the ghosts of Christmas past, some bringing feelings of joy, some bringing the sharp pain of loss, all precious memories of people, places, meals that may never be repeated, but live forever as part of our life story.

I remember, as a very young mum having my first son exactly two weeks before Christmas Day, being so totally overwhelmed with love for this new little human I had produced.

Alongside that love was fear in equal measures. How on earth was I to be trusted with such a tiny, defenceless, precious living being? At 21, having lost my mum a year previously, I knew nothing!

Indeed my our doctor congratulated me when I took my baby to the doctors at three weeks old, for managing to give my son prickly heat in late December, in England.

I had been so worried about him getting cold in my tiny end of terrace with no central heating, that I had been putting him to bed dressed in vest, baby-grow, cardigan, hat, mittens, booties, SNOWSUIT, blankets and a quilt to top him off. Unsurprisingly he developed a rash and I learnt a lesson about my son’s needs before the poor little thing melted.

I remember ten years later, as a separated mother of three young sons, a Christmas where I begged the bank for an overdraft to help me ‘do’ Christmas.

That year the boys and I were on our own, and they had asked for a ‘party tea’ for Christmas dinner. It turned out to be one of the top Christmases ever. Not because I had got an overdraft of £50, but because we spent the day in our pyjamas, eating sausage rolls, pizza, chocolate, playing daft games and when asked which present the boys had enjoyed the most, they had loved these pong pong ball guns I had bought from the 50p shop.

I learnt a valuable lesson that Christmas, one that I have to remind myself of very year when the anxiety starts creeping in.

It's not about the presents. It’s about love and time spent, the important presence.

Wishing for a tide that raises everyone up in 2024.

Happy New Year.