The Posh Paw Blog

Christmas Eve in the Beaumont house has never been about serenity.
It’s about choreography.

Not elegant, balletic choreography — no, no.
The kind performed in a kitchen where Mum has declared that everyone must stay out, and yet somehow every single person ends up squarely in her way anyway.

I woke up to the familiar scent of cinnamon, cloves, and mild panic. The latter was Mum’s, drifting up the staircase like steam.

By the time I padded downstairs in my socks, she was already in full command mode, armed with a wooden spoon and a look that suggested the entire holiday depended on the precise alignment of three mince pies.

Meanwhile, Dad was leaning against the counter, buttering toast with the kind of serene bliss found only in men who have survived decades of Christmas Eves with women like my mother.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said, handing me the corner of his toast as though it were a sacrament.

Mum didn’t turn around.
She simply said, “Good. You’re up. Peel those potatoes.”

I took my place beside her, knowing better than to question the queen in her kingdom, Dad just smiled, humming one of those soft, half-forgotten tunes he pulls out like talismans from the sixties.

After a minute, he pivoted to face us — all gentle grin and twinkling eyes — and broke into the line as though it were the most natural greeting in the world:

“Sweets for my sweet… sugar for my honeys…”

He gestured between the two of us with a tilt of his head — Mum with her wooden spoon, me with my potato peeler. That is one of his favorites, the one he uses when he feels love and affection for us girls in the family. He doesn’t say affectionate words – he expresses his feelings with old song lyrics, and somehow he seems to know them all by heart.

Mum tried so hard not to react. I could see her bite the inside of her lip, her shoulders stiffened. She made a noise that was technically a huff but emotionally a smile.

“Patrick,” she said sharply, “honestly.”

But he just kept on smiling, he knew he had her.
He always does.

I caught the flicker in her eyes — the faintest shimmer, like a fragment of light reflecting off old glitter trapped deep in the kitchen grout. The kind of glitter that only comes from childhood Christmases involving a grandmother who believed in sparkle the way other people believe in God.

Mum sighed.
But it was her fond sigh — the one she tries to hide behind efficiency.

“Don’t encourage them,” she muttered under her breath, even though only two of us were in the room.

And then — without turning — she slid a plate of shortbread in my direction.

“You’ll want something to nibble on before lunch,” she said, as though the shortbread had simply levitated there by accident.

By late afternoon, the kitchen smells like roast potatoes, cloves, gravy, and something faintly anxious.

Dad appears in the doorway, already loosened at the collar, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying not to knock anything over simply by existing.

He watches Mum move things around that don’t need moving.

Rearrange things that are already perfect.

Add garnish to garnish.

Finally, he clears his throat.

Very gently.

The bravest thing he will do all day.

“It’s not unusual to get a little hungry now and then…”

He says it into the steam, not looking at her.

She freezes for half a beat.

Doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t respond.

Just lifts the lid from another pot, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

Dinner is beautiful.

Of course it is. It always is.

The table looks like something from a magazine Mum would never admit to reading. Candles, silver cutlery, proper napkins. Dad waits. And waits. And waits.

At one point he whispers to me, conspiratorially:

“You’d think feeding a starving man was a human right.”

I snort into my water glass. Mum does not approve of snorting.

She’s still slightly cross with him through the meal — not angry, just… bristling. It’s rare, but it happens. He knows it. He feels it. I look at him and say ”She said you hurt her so she almost lost her mind. But I know you’re not the hurting kind.”

He smiles at me and says with affection and pride, ”I’ll fix this. Because she’s mine, I’ll walk the line”

And he always does.

After dinner, Mum washes, Dad dries.

They’ve moved like this together for decades — a choreography of quiet apology and acceptance.

I sit at the table with a cup of tea, watching the steam curl, watching the way they avoid looking at each other until they don’t.

He breaks the silence.

Soft. Almost throwaway.

“Sometimes… all I need is the air that I breathe… and to love you.”

Mum stops scrubbing. Just for a second. Then she gently rubs her shoulder gently against his, saying ”I could never stay mad at you for long,” she says.

“You know that.”

And for the first time in the whole house, something shifts.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

He smiles. That quiet one. The one that built this house.

Later, tea appears. Biscuits in the old tin that still smells faintly of cinnamon and age. The tree lights blink like they’re trying to eavesdrop.

And Mum, calmer now, sighs:

“Thank heavens my mother isn’t here. I couldn’t stand all her glitter nonsense — the decorations twinkle enough as it is.”

I bite my lip to stop laughing.

Christmas Eve isn’t for explosions.

It’s for softening. It’s where the cracks show — and where the glue lives.

And Dad?

Dad is the glue.

Merry Christmas,
Luce 💋