If You Know, You know: Convent Girl December

If you’re a Convent girl, December isn’t a month.

It’s a condition.

The minute December started, something shifted. Voices got softer. Behaviour got better. Everyone suddenly remembered how to be “good”. Not because we wanted to be good. Because what if Santa was watching.

Christmas was serious business. Starting with the tree. That star on top? Not decorative. Emotional. Spiritual. If it wasn’t straight, someone fixed it. If it was slightly tilted, it haunted us. Because how can Santa respect a crooked star?

Then came the Carols. Honestly, I don’t know why we didn’t get professional certificates. We auditioned like we were all hoping to be discovered. Silent Night wasn’t sung. It was rehearsed. Again. And again. And again. Every word pronounced properly. Every pause respected. No unnecessary enthusiasm. Discipline but festive.

Even now, if a carol plays anywhere, I automatically stand straighter and sing like I’ve been summoned. My kids stare. They don’t understand that “holy infant so tender and mild” was practised more times than maths tables.

The Christmas play was next-level drama. Who would be Mother Mary? Angel Shepherd? And most importantly—whose doll would be baby Jesus? That doll peaked early. Auditions were stressful. There were politics. There were tears. There was that one girl who was always Mother Mary. Always.

Secret Santa gifts were small. Very small. And perfect. Honestly, we were thrilled with a fancy pencil. Or an eraser that smelled like strawberries. Expectations were low. Happiness was high. We waited. We behaved. December was when we suddenly became very good children. Just in case.

Now I have kids.

And kids today announce what they want in Secret Santa. Like it’s a press conference. “Something fun but useful.” “No stationery.”

“No -Budget and something cool.” The confidence is unbelievable. Nobody is quietly hoping anymore. There are demands.

Their Christmas has fairs. Real fairs. With lights. Stalls. Artificial snow machines that make everyone slightly wet but emotionally fulfilled. There are hot chocolate booths. Multiple flavours. Marshmallows are optional but encouraged. You don’t just drink hot chocolate now—you curate it.

Ours had pin the nose on the reindeer, one curly chips stall, and Santa arriving on a carriage. We stood around waiting to catch a single candy thrown from his sack. One candy. And we went home feeling like Christmas had really delivered.

They walk through Christmas markets holding cups, discussing what they’ve already eaten and what they’re planning next. Like tiny food critics. There is music. There is noise. There is zero silence.

These kids don’t wait for magic to surprise them. Magic has timings. Magic has counters. Magic accepts UPI.

And honestly? I love this for them.

I love that their December is loud and messy and confident. That they don’t feel the need to earn joy or behave into it. Christmas shows up for them regardless—whether they’re naughty, nice, or negotiating Secret

Now I sit with my coffee, watching some overly romantic Christmas movie where everyone owns a fireplace and zero people have real problems. And still—still—some part of me glances at the chimney and wonders… will Santa come? Or has he modernised too? Does he have an app now? A delivery tracker? Is he stuck in traffic?

Because here’s the thing. The world has changed. Kids are sharper. Trees are brighter. Lists are longer. But the feeling?

It’s that feeling we all share.

That quiet realisation that the year is coming to an end. That we’ve

survived another one. That something new is waiting to be embraced.

Christmas, the Holidays, New Year — it’s really just one long excuse to pause, feel a little softer, and let ourselves believe in joy again.

And us Convent girls, We don’t outgrow December. We just carry it differently. In carols we sing too loudly. In stars we still want straight. In that small hope that something magical might still happen.