For nearly 30 years, I’ve done just about every family Christmas. The shopping, the wrapping, the menu planning—and, let’s be honest, the last-minute dashes for forgotten cream. I thought I was prepared for the shift—after all, I’ve survived school concerts, teenage moods, and the broken arms, sibling rivalry and more. But nothing quite prepares you for Christmas when your child is suddenly the host.

New Traditions (and a Few Shocks)

First up: the rules. My son announced, with the authority of a man who now owns his own cutlery, that there would be no presents for adults. Just like that, decades of frantic Christmas Eve wrapping were over. I wasn’t sure whether to cry tears of relief or heartbreak. (So I did both, quietly).

Then came the menu. Mashed potatoes made the cut, but the family pavlova? Banished! I tried to protest, but he was resolute. Apparently, mashed potato is now a Christmas staple, but pavlova is “so last year.”

The Comfort of the Old

But as the day unfolded, I started to notice little touches of home. There was the classic cabanosi and French onion dip—served jatz biscuits and some other more fancy stuff. Our favourite ice cream, mint jelly, and, of course, the big breakfast to start the day—because some traditions are too good to let go.

The Bittersweet Bit

I watched him bustling around, making coffee, checking the oven, laughing at his own jokes. My little boy—now a man, running his own Christmas. It hit me, all at once: I’m so proud I could burst, and just a little bit heartbroken that the baton has truly been passed.

The Final Word

Christmas at my son’s was different. It was full of new quirks. But it was also warm, familiar, and absolutely ours. I laughed until I cried, and then I just cried a little more—because this, I realised, is what growing up (and letting go) looks like.

Here’s to new traditions, old comforts, and the joy (and ache) of watching your kids build their own Christmas magic.



About the Author

A mum for life and a proud grandma, Niki Gent has spent nearly three decades orchestrating family Christmases, wrangling tinsel, and perfecting the art of the big breakfast. These days, she’s learning to pass the baton (with only a little bit of gentle protesting) as her children create their own traditions. Niki writes about the joys, tears, and laughter that come with family, food, and letting go—one mashed potato at a time.



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