I grew up celebrating Christmas in the most traditional British way possible. Family gathered, arguments began, turkeys were roasted, crackers were pulled, Church was attended. 

My children are growing up with all the same experiences, except of course that Father Christmas is now black, the choir sings gospel and the table is decorated with palm fronds and not holly.

This year will be more poignant than any other. My mother has decided it will be the last she can manage in The Bahamas. She has flown from England every year to join me on the small tropical island I live on. 18 in total. 18 years with my mother in my home. Next year I will have to cancel Christmas. It will never again be the same.

Over those 18 years we have collected, made, or stolen a host of tree ornaments, each with its own story to tell. I look at our tree and see the chapters of our life together. 
And I feel blessed for the family I have. 

Except of course this year we have somehow managed to end up with Barbie on the top of the tree and there is something slightly alarming about that.