Christmas is my favourite time of year, closely followed by the moment it’s over when I can lie down, eat leftovers and not step foot inside a supermarket for a week. Don’t get me wrong, I adore it. The lights, the food, the atmosphere, the excuse to be excessively indulgent. This year, however, Christmas arrived hand in hand with a certain level of stress and chaos.

There was the panic of buying gifts for an ever-growing family, the logistical nightmare of fitting in visits with everyone, and the sudden realisation that December is apparently the only acceptable time to catch up with friends that you haven’t seen all year. Then there’s the supermarket… attempting a food shop anywhere near the big day requires an Olympic level amount of patience, something I unfortunately do not possess. On the bright side, it’s the one time of year you can eat your bodyweight in chocolate for breakfast without anyone questioning your life choices. Because why not? It’s Christmas.

This was my first ever Christmas whilst pregnant, and aside from being unable to enjoy a festive tipple (tragic), I imagine it would normally feel quite magical. Instead, with an ongoing house renovation (still not complete), and my due date creeping closer at an alarming speed, the festive feeling didn’t quite hit as usual. The house felt more like a building site than a home, and any attempts at cleaning or nesting were completely futile. I’d start a task full of motivation, only to get distracted, tired, or forget entirely what I was doing in the first place.

On the brighter side, I enjoyed a long-overdue extended break from work over the holiday. Which was probably for the best, because I’m not sure my baby brain could have handled much more to think about. Yes, baby brain. Or pregnancy brain, as it’s otherwise known. A phenomenon I was once naïve enough to believe was a myth. Just another old wives’ tale people liked to exaggerate. How wrong I was.

The forgetfulness, the fogginess. The inability to make even the simplest of decisions without feeling overwhelmed. I’ve walked into rooms and upstairs more times than I care to admit, only to stand there wondering why I’m there and what day it is. It’s actually quite impressive how little information my brain now retains on a daily basis.

How I’ve managed to bumble my way through a day job over the past few months, whilst being unable to focus on a task for longer than a hyperactive toddler, is beyond me. So, if a pregnant woman you know does something odd and casually blames ‘baby brain’, please don’t question it. Baby brain is real, ruthless, and absolutely to blame.

Naturally, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about how different next year will look. We should have a proper home by then, one where we can spend quality time together in the lead up to Christmas, and one where we can actually decorate without navigating around tools and dust sheets. I know renovations during pregnancy are fairly common, but having just lived through it, I wouldn’t be in any rush to repeat the experience, nor recommend it. And certainly not during Christmas time. Looking back now, I’m not entirely sure what we were thinking. I may decide in a few months that the stress was worth it, but, at the moment, that feels like a stretch.

Though, above all, our home will have a brand-new addition. One who will make Christmas more special than it has ever been. So, while I reminisce about a Christmas that didn’t quite have the sparkle it usually brings, I can happily say I can’t wait for the next one. I can’t wait to spoil a child who won’t yet understand what Christmas is all about. I can’t wait to see the wonder in their eyes at the lights, the wrapping paper and the joy of it all. And I can’t wait to create new traditions as a family of three.

For now, I’m counting down the days to maternity leave while mentally listing everything left to do before the baby arrives, having been reminded countless times already since new year that the baby is now due this year.

Before the final 9-5 slog ahead of maternity leave, I’ll settle for leftover chocolate, dodgy DIY (on the husband’s part of course), and the promise that next Christmas may just involve less stress, fewer trips to the supermarket, and a whole lot more magic.

Your Camo Wife