I love Christmas. I always have. I know not everyone does and I’m also aware that for a lot of people Christmas is a tough time of year, but for me the magic of Christmas has never waned. 

Memories of Christmas in the Mitchell househould fill my heart with many wonderful emotions and I can’t help but smile when I think of Mum sat next to the tree handing out our gifts, reading each tag with as much enthusiasm as the last. I remember the many hours that followed as we took turns to open them one by one, looking on in delight to see what we each had received, all the while eagerly impatient for our own turn to open. 

My thoughts are also filled with fairy lights and jigsaw puzzles (a staple festive gift which Dad and I would relish in, but which my sister I’m sure would still cringe about to this day, remembering how she would put together the edges and then more often than not, break them back up again and return them to the box where they would then remain, unmade, as I had kindly offered to ‘help’ her complete the rest – not an uncommon theme throughout our childhood now I come to think of it). I think too of new pyjamas, traditional turkey roast dinner and three kinds of stuffing; of an open fire, the Queens speech, Annie (one of my favourite films which I’m sure stems from finding comfort in the trials and tribulations of a fellow red head, albeit an orphan one); sherry pop and falling asleep on the lounge room floor. There are too many magical memories to note them all but needless to say, for me, Christmas has always been a wonderful time of the year. 

Living the Aussie life for the last 15 years has meant that my take on Christmas has somewhat changed. I can honestly say that Christmas spent in a bikini, eating prawns cooked on the BBQ (‘barbie’ if you really want to get in the spirit of the Aussie twang) and where evening activities include dodging and swatting Mosquitos and swimming in the backyard pool, will never quite compare to the cold, dark British Christmas. Having a six year old, however, whose eyes light up at the mere mention of Santa and where the ever increasing excitement of the countdown to the ‘big day’ is almost too much to bear, serves as a beautiful and constant reminder of the romance of Christmas, and once again I fall in love with this time of year. 

Embedded in all of my memories, both childhood and more recently, is chocolate. The variety, copious, and the quantity seemingly bottomless: Terry’s chocolate orange, a guaranteed gift from Nanny Mitchell; home-made chocolate coated marzipan (I’m salivating as I write), tree decorations galore and chocolate coins, my favouite chocolatey treat. I am, or rather was, a self confessed chocoholic and no-one who really knows me would dispute that fact. I have been known to have chocolate for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every snack in between. I do not discriminate between varieties, although I’m not a fan of dark chocolate and I do love the expensive stuff (story of my life). In more recent years, I have been known to bundle a sound asleep Patrick into the  back of the car on a mission to purchase the brown, melt in your mouth stuff, when the desire/need/want was too strong to fight at 10pm.  Even I think that is a little crazy in hindsight! But this year, due to recent discoveries, there will be no chocolate at Christmas, or ever again for that matter it seems. 

Six years ago, in conjunction with the arrival of Patrick, I developed arm numbness. This wasn’t just a ‘slept on your arm the wrong way’ kind of thing; we are talking both arms, shoulders to fingers, zero feeling! That was at it’s worse, but even at best I could wake up not knowing where one of my arms was, fearing that if I rolled over, I may break something. It was unpleasant and disconcerting, and while the feeling always returned upon awakening, some mornings it was quite a challenge to turn the alarm clock off (don’t laugh) and the sensation of the feeling returning was uncomfortable to say the least. To cut a long story short, but not without mentioning the time and money spent trying to get to the bottom of my newly developed condition, and with many a Doctor citing that ‘I was just sleeping funny’; in November this year I discovered the underlying reason for my numb arms at night – chocolate! While no doubt some of you reading this may scoff in dispute, I have tested my theory in a variety of ways and the fact remains, I am allergic to my most favourite edible thing.

It appears to be the cocoa; and while I have no idea why it only happens while I sleep, if even the tiniest bit passes my lips, I will wake up with no feeling in at least one arm. I haven’t formally been allergy tested (and I’m not convinced it would show up anyway) and I haven’t concluded if the severity of the numbness directly relates to the quantity eaten, but during one episode, my legs were starting to go numb also, so it’s not a theory I’m willing to test. 

My finding is bittersweet however, as I now face a life without chocolate and more pertinantly so, my first Christmas without chocolate.  I realise that there are many worse things that could happen, and going without chocolate for evermore is not really that dramatic, nor is it ‘end of the word, cry yourself to sleep’ stuff, but for me it’s going to take some adjustment.  So this year instead of devouring all of the yummy treats that I can lay my eyes on, I will avert my gaze from the marzipan and seek out the nicest fudge I can find and instead of finding solace in the sweet brown stuff I can eat, I will remind myself of the magic of Christmas past and of all of the wonderful things that spending time with family can bring, and maybe I’ll get out a jigsaw instead of reaching for another chocolate coin. 

Merry Christmas.