Christopher came home from his Sunday School class with a puzzled frown on his normally sunny little face. "Auntie Joyce laughed and told me I was silly," he complained. Further questioning revealed the reason : his Sunday School teacher, Joyce, (an honorary Aunt to all the village children) had been talking about the coming festivities with her class of four- and five-year-olds and, on asking "and what special baby is born on Christmas Day?" didn't expect him to answer "MINE!!" But yes, his new baby was indeed due to arrive then and NOTHING could give the infant Jesus priority as far as he was concerned!
Christmas Eve arrived and I was still waddling around, by this time the size of a house and dreading having to struggle through Christmas Day if the baby decided to keep us waiting. But, true to form, I felt the first twinges as I stood peeling chestnuts for the stuffing and by mid-afternoon decided it was time to ring the hospital and let them know. As it was a twenty mile journey and with the weather threatening snow, they advised me to come in straight away so off we went.
Predictably, the pains wore off and were declared a false alarm but, with the weather beginning to close in and me being at full term, they wouldn't let me go home so I settled down for a long and miserable night away from home and family. As I dozed, I became aware of a figure at the foot of my bed. A white figure. An Angel? No, nothing so wonderful. It was a snowman, her hat at a rakish angle and suffering from a severe fit of the giggles. "Fancy a drink, love?" It seemed that I had been put in the room next to the staff Christmas party and they had taken pity on me and my solitary state. The snowman, Father Christmas and a selection of clowns, fairies and assorted nursery rhyme characters took turns to ply me with mince pies, sausage rolls and sandwiches, all washed down at intervals with small glasses of sherry, and kept me company until late into the night. I slept like the proverbial log (probably something to do with the sherry.....) and in the morning was rudely awakened by signs that this time my baby was REALLY on the way.
The snowman reappeared, this time dressed in a more austere navy blue, and introduced herself as the midwife on duty. I was moved to the labour ward and spent a restless morning, which dragged all the more because my husband, notified of the impending arrival, had telephoned to say that he was on his way but was having trouble getting through on the icy country roads.
The baby, however, was waiting for no-one and arrived without too much fuss or undue ceremony (but more than a little effort on my part), a sturdy eight-and-a-half pounder, at half-past noon. At twenty-five past, someone from the kitchen staff had popped her head round the door and asked if I'd like my dinner kept warm for me. To this day I don't know what reply I gave, but I do know that the midwife gave me a reproving look and said "THAT wasn't very polite!" Put it down to the stress of the moment.
My baby, a beautiful blue-eyed boy with a fuzz of blond hair, was soon cleaned up, wrapped in a white shawl and handed to me, and I was returned to my hospital bed, exhausted but elated and quite too excited to sleep. Visiting hours came and went - there were very few mothers in the hospital at the time, as everyone able to return home for Christmas had done so, and those left had at least one visitor - but my baby and I waited alone. The nurses had telephoned my home but got no reply - my family were still on their way. I tried not to worry. The baby slept peacefully, unaware of my concerns for his father and brother out there on the wintry roads. I switched on the radio but the constant news flashes warning of severe weather heading our way did little to reassure me. Even the spectacular sunset, purple and blood-red against the frosty hills, did not enthrall me as it should have but at last, as night began to draw in, I heard the sound I had been waiting for.
Footsteps echoing, approaching down the empty corridor, and I looked up to see the smiling faces of my husband and young son. Outside of the window, against the background of the darkening sky, the snow began to fall.
   
  
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Image : The North Yorkshire Moors (near where this story took place) in winter,
adapted from a photo by Ian Britton, from a selection at Freefoto.com
A Christmas Child © 2000 : Dianne Davies
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