I used to think my family’s Christmas rituals were normal. Until I met my husband

December 7, 2025 — 5.00am

I love Christmas. Not in a “midnight Mass, stained glass and soaring carols echoing through the rafters” kind of way. No, I love the other Christmas. The kitsch Christmas. The Christmas of fairy lights, bonbons, Elf on the Shelf, Woolworths pavlovas. The Christmas of utterly arbitrary, yet fiercely defended, traditions.

On the day itself, you must have a Christmas Day outfit, preferably in a shade of red or green.Credit: iStock

If your family is anything like mine, the festive season is dictated by a set of unwritten, unbreakable domestic edicts. These are The Rules. The Christmas Rules. They are passed on through knowing glances, offhand comments (“you can’t put the tree up before December 1st”) and the shared panic of a new person discreetly tucking their paper crown under a napkin, instead of perching it jauntily atop their head where it belongs.

The rules, are the rules, are the rules.

For instance: Board games on Christmas Eve are compulsory. They must begin in good cheer and end in chaos. Someone must accuse someone else of cheating. Monopoly is banned in our household for reasons we all understand. A dark-horse cousin will emerge as a terrifyingly ruthless Scrabble player. A grandparent will fall asleep mid-game and one of the kids will burst into floods of tears when told they’re too young to play 500 and sent to bed (this is when the Ferrero Rochers appear).

On the day itself, you must have a Christmas Day outfit, preferably in a shade of red or green. Around 10am someone will say, “Right, I’m going to get changed.” And that’s it, the morning spell is broken. We’re officially transitioning from Santa presents to the family exchange portion of the day. The outfit is not as much about formality as it is about intent. The Christmas Day outfit says: “I am ready. I am entering the festive zone.”

A walk must be proposed. No one wants the walk. No one enjoys the walk. But the walk, or swim, must be proposed. Ideally, right after lunch, when everyone is too full to move and halfway through a port-induced nap. The proposer will say something about “stretching out the old bones” even though nobody knows what this means. Ultimately, the walk may or may not happen, but the proposal itself is vital. It is like the lighting of the Olympic flame.

This is as it should be.

Everyone tears in at the same time, like Boxing Day at Westfield in the ’90s. Wrapping paper flying, ribbons trampled underfoot, kids calling out “Thanks Granny!”

Before I was married, I never thought of our traditions as particularly unusual. Not until I found myself explaining to my new husband that, no, you cannot open a present at the same time as someone else, like some kind of festive free-for-all, did I learn that not everyone does Christmas like we do.

“One by one,” I told him solemnly, like I was passing on an ancient rite. “So that everyone can see what everyone else got and share a little comment like, ‘Oh, that’s so nice. I was just thinking last week how much I needed a new pair of socks/set of hand towels/scented candles/lipstick/golf tees/chopping board?’ And maybe even a quick clap to show how truly delighted you are.”

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He stared back at me, unblinking, judgmental and perturbed.

In my husband’s family? Everyone tears in at the same time, like Boxing Day at Westfield in the ’90s. Wrapping paper flying, ribbons trampled underfoot, kids calling out “Thanks Granny!” from beneath a pile of discarded gift bags and used tape.

Also, they don’t take it in turns to be the one handing out a present from beneath the tree. Instead, the youngest child, regardless of their actual age, oversees a wild and rapid-fire distribution system. If the youngest is now 32, living abroad, and can only connect via Zoom? Too bad.

Now that I am a grown-up with a home of my own, I also get to make new rules. The lights on the tree must be warm white. Not blue; we are not in a nightclub. The decorations must include at least three homemade monstrosities from someone’s preschool years. My son must declare – loudly and repeatedly – that it “really smells like Christmas now” while theatrically breathing in the scent of pine needles.

What I’ve come to love most about these rules, both the ones I grew up with and the new ones I’m gently trying not to judge, is how pointless they are. Gloriously, stubbornly pointless. There is no reason board games can’t wait until Boxing Day. The Christmas Day outfit may be worn earlier in the year. Lights on the tree bring joy regardless of their colour. And no, sorry, you cannot have a Christmas tree theme. I must draw a line somewhere. This is not a department store.

These rules define how we know it’s Christmas and how we make it our own. There is comfort in the repetition, and in the knowing what comes next. They are how, one day, we will place ourselves in history: pinpointing a specific moment amid the blur of the years and the muddle of change. Traditions are how we remember the people we love as they once were, and how we know, without saying, that we belong.

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