Sleighing My Way Through December, One Breakdown at a Time

Ahh Christmas approaches: an annual exercise in remembering seventeen thousand things nobody else has thought about, whilst pretending that a satsuma in a stocking constitutes a charming family tradition.

Common spoilers involve devising kids wish lists and immediately having to sacrifice them to the Grand parents when they text in September for "ideas". And of course any tiny accidental omission/anomaly/sideways glance on "the big day", for example: forgot to cook the gluten free stuffing for Uncle Bob; didn't buy enough Shloer for the mother-in-law; Granny complains the custard for the pudding has gone cold; one too many sprouts and Aunty June has let loose a guff so pungent the baby has projectiled all over Grandad... Tiny details that make the difference between a magical Christmas and a festive episode of The Apprentice, except many of those involved are under five foot tall and wailing because their brother looked at them "weird".

The Christmas magic doesn't organise itself

Has anyone remembered that the school Christmas jumper day is today? (Don't panic - this is hyperthetical, it's not today - or is it? Better set a reminder for that). Of course not, and the baked bean saturated knitwear is currently somewhere between the washing machine and the twilight zone.

Magic apparently requires someone to remember the advent calendars, source the correct brand of chocolate, organise the school events, buy the teacher presents, plan the meals, stock the cupboards, wrap the presents and maintain a convincing atmosphere of festive enthusiasm while boggling to Wham! And woe betide the mother who doesn't implement a strict card writing regime at the end of November to ensure all classmates receive a card, regardless of how much of a little a-hole Thomas was at James's birthday party.

For neurodivergent mums, all this can be particularly challenging. Executive dysfunction, sensory overload, difficulty prioritising competing demands and the sheer volume of things to remember can turn a supposedly joyful season into an obstacle course designed by someone who actively detests your very being.

And yet we're still expected to make it look effortless. Surviving on convert pumps of squirty cream with our heads hidden inside the fridge.

Christmas as a neurodivergent mum: too much of everything

I love creativity. I love the idea of making things special. I love seeing my children get excited about something that feels bigger than ordinary life. What I don't love is the expectation that I should somehow transform myself into a festive events coordinator with the organisational skills of a military operation and the emotional regulation of a Buddhist monk.

Christmas is an assault on the senses. Children positivly vibrating with excitement; family gatherings; endless decisions; high streets full of people behaving as though the continued existence of humanity depends on securing the last novelty biscuit tin, while the familiar slap in the face of cinnamon emanates from Lush.

And then there's the pressure to enjoy it all. If you're neurodivergent, the combination of sensory overload, disrupted routines and constant demands can leave you feeling completely depleted. Even the things you genuinely enjoy can become overwhelming when there are too many of them, all at once. Add three children into the mix and you've got a festive production line in which everybody needs something from you - immediately.

The trouble is that loving Christmas and finding Christmas difficult aren't mutually exclusive.

You can adore your children and still need ten minutes in a quiet room. You can want to create wonderful memories and still resent being the keeper of the "to do" list. You can be grateful for your family and still find the whole thing a bit much. These things can all be true at the same time. Isn't being a grown-up just plain marvellous.

The pressure to create a perfect Christmas is absolute nonsense

Somewhere along the line, Christmas became a competitive sport. The beautifully decorated house; the handmade wreath; the instagram matching pyjamas - and dont get me started on "elf on the shelf" or the "christmas eve box" - sorry kids, absolutly no way am I entertaining that particular circle of hell in my house thank you.

Social media has a lot to answer for. Even when we know perfectly well that we're looking at carefully curated snapshots, it's difficult not to compare our own chaotic reality with someone else's expertly lit highlight reel. Meanwhile, your living room looks as though a small festive-themed bomb has gone off, one child has rejected dinner on philosophical grounds, and you're trying to remember whether you ordered batteries.

Here's a radical thought: Your children don't need a perfect Christmas. They need a Christmas that works for your family.

Maybe that means fewer presents. Maybe it means buying the mince pies instead of making them from scratch. Maybe it means declining an invitation, skipping the carol service or serving beige food because everyone will actually eat it.

Maybe it means admitting that you don't particularly enjoy certain traditions and that nobody will be permanently damaged if they don't happen this year. Traditions are supposed to add something to your life, not become another tick box on the list of obligations. You are allowed to make things easier. You are allowed to do things differently. You are allowed to plonk the kids in front of K-Pop Demon Hunters after lunch and take a little sofa-nap.

Christmas presents for mums: please, for the love of all things festive, think before you ask

Can we talk about Christmas presents for mothers? Every year, women are presented with an extraordinary selection of gifts supposedly designed to make them feel appreciated. Scented candles. Bath products. Plaques reminding them that they are the glue holding the family together. Lovely. But if a woman is already responsible for keeping an entire household functioning, perhaps the answer isn't to give her another object that requires storage, dusting or a decision about where it belongs.

Perhaps the answer is to notice her. To buy her something that makes her laugh. Something that reflects her actual personality rather than her job description as Mum. Something that says, I know you're a complex human being with opinions, flaws, questionable coping mechanisms and a personality that existed before you had children. Because mothers are people, too. Revolutionary stuff, I know.

And if you're shopping for a neurodivergent mum, please remember that the most thoughtful gift isn't necessarily the most elaborate one. It might be something funny, useful, personal or wonderfully uncomplicated. Or, gosh - I literally just thought of this - a coupon book of promises! Yes please. "Rafe promises not to shout at Jack for an hour" - Alexa, set the timer. "Ella promises not to eat mummies special festive selection box this year". Good lord. This suggestion is being whatsapped to my husband right now. Again, another year when I am the one coming up with the ideas. I hate myself for this. But I don't want more books from my wish list that literally anyone could buy. I've got a full shelf I am I desperate to read, please don't add more decisions.

Enter Everyday Womtras: festive gifts for women who aren't made of inspirational quotes

This is precisely why I created Everyday Womtras. I'm interested in the things we actually think, rather than the things we're apparently supposed to say. A Womtra is an affirmation, a self-deprecating statement or a thinly veiled side-eye. It's a little recognition of the ridiculousness of being human, wrapped up in a glorious doodle and a few carefully chosen words.

Everyday Womtras exists for:

• The people who appreciate humour with a soupçon more personality than Live, Laugh, Love.

• The woman who loves her family but isn't convinced that motherhood needs to be her entire identity.

• The friend who is holding everything together with caffeine, sarcasm and a frankly alarming number of mental lists.

• The sister who would rather receive something that makes her snort-laugh than another plaque about the importance of a "sisterly bond".

• The colleague who has survived another year of corporate nonsense and deserves some recognition for it.

My personality-led gifts and lifestyle products are designed for people who like their humour honest, their gifts individual and their festive sentimentality drenched in Baileys.

Not every woman wants to be told she's a queen. Some of us would prefer to be acknowledged as the magnificent, slightly unhinged menace we actually are. And honestly? Fair enough.

Five ways to make Christmas less overwhelming this year

I'm not about to tell you to start meditating at 5 am, prepare twelve months in advance or create a colour-coded festive spreadsheet. If those things work for you, excellent. If they don't, please don't add them to your list of reasons you're apparently failing at Christmas.

Here are five more realistic suggestions:

1. Decide what actually matters.

Choose a handful of traditions that genuinely make you and your family happy. Everything else is optional. Yes, even the things you've always done.

2. Lower the number of decisions.

Repeat meals. Reuse decorations. Buy the same presents for people who like the same things. Make lists somewhere you can actually find them. Your Christmas does not need to be a demonstration of your ability to generate endless novelty.

3. Build in recovery time.

If family gatherings, shopping centres or noisy celebrations leave you exhausted, plan some quiet time around them. If rest is a reward for finishing every task, you'll be waiting until February.

4. Let other people take responsibility.

There's a difference between asking someone to help and making yourself responsible for delegating, explaining, reminding and checking every single thing. Give people actual ownership of tasks. If they're old enough to have an opinion about Christmas, they're old enough to contribute something.

5. Stop trying to manufacture festive joy.

You don't have to feel delighted every minute of December. Some days will be lovely. Some will be stressful. Some will involve eating chocolate in the kitchen while contemplating your life choices. All of them count as Christmas.

To the mum who is already exhausted before December has properly started

If you're reading this and mentally calculating everything you haven't done yet, take a breath.

You don't have to earn the right to enjoy Christmas by making it perfect for everybody else first.

You don't have to be endlessly patient, permanently organised, or delighted by every festive obligation. You can be a brilliant mum without turning yourself into a festive martyr.

I'm still figuring this out myself. Three children, two creative businesses, a neurodivergent brain and the general business of being a middle-aged woman have taught me that life is far too short to spend all of it trying to meet expectations that nobody actually agreed were reasonable.

So this Christmas, I'm aiming for a little less perfection and a little more honesty. More laughter. Fewer obligations. Gifts with personality. Traditions that actually mean something. And if all else fails, there's always next year. Assuming, of course, that somebody remembered to buy the batteries.

Make Christmas yours. And if you know a woman who deserves a gift with a little more personality and a little less saccharine nonsense, explore the Everyday Womtras collection.

Because the best presents aren't always the ones that tell people how wonderful they are.

Sometimes they're the ones that make them feel properly, gloriously understood.

Discover Everyday Womtras: personality-led gifts and lifestyle enhancements for people who were never going to fit neatly inside a Christmas card anyway.

Neurodivergent mum at Christmas · Christmas overwhelm · Christmas mental load · Funny Christmas gifts for mums · Gifts for middle-aged women · Alternative Christmas gifts