Twas three weeks before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for my 13-year-old daughter, who emerged from her lair with a level of vim uncommon in daylight hours.
As she made her approach with laptop aglow, her droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow. It then became apparent that I was about to become the audience (some may say “victim”) of a recent cultural phenomenon: the Christmas wishlist slideshow.
Graphic design platform Canva seems to be the tool of choice for many teenagers. Canva say the first Christmas wishlist template was added to their library in 2019. Since 2022, people have created more than 3.35m Christmas wishlist designs. Presentation-style wishlists have jumped 61% between 2024 and 2025, totalling 1.4m. Social media is awash with videos of exuberant adolescents in expensive sweatsuits making family presentations on huge TVs, along with countless tutorials on how to make them “aesthetic” – a word I never tire of reminding my children is a noun, not an adjective.
Suffice to say it was not visions of sugar plums that had been dancing in my daughter’s head. Instead, I was treated to an initial collage of brands and stores that she holds in mysterious esteem, followed by a series of categorised slides covering the teenage perennials: clothes, jewellery, decor, beauty products and, thankfully, some books. While her slideshow featured images, “inspo” and prices, she refrained from the vulgarity of hyperlinks, which, judging by the online evidence, are a common addition. And, I guess, could be handy.
In my rigorous and highly scientific research (read: texting every parent in my contacts list) it was revealed that girls are the main perpetrators, usually embracing this nouveau custom in their late tweens before growing out of it a few years later. Many who were on the receiving end of these pitches appreciated the initiative and practicality, while at the same time lamenting the creep of bland online “get ready with me” and “unboxing” tropes into family traditions. As one friend, whose two boys had never subjected her to the experience, put it – it sounds a bit like people who spend too much time in office mode, then plan their camping holiday meals in an Excel spreadsheet.
Efficient? Certainly. But is it as adorable as the hand-scrawled, misspelled and glitter-smeared entreaties for Santa’s benevolence we knew and loved? Not quite. But as those sanguine mementoes of her innocence gather dust in a drawer somewhere, I was surprised to appreciate the thought, effort and moderation she applied to her newfangled approach. She even added some “dupe” options “as a backup”. Well played, kid.
While it’s hard to feel much seasonal magic emanating from a template-built pitch deck, there’s no denying it beats the look of thinly veiled disappointment when your best attempts fall flat. As my cousin said: “There are times in parenting when you just have to admit defeat and play by the rules of the new guard. God knows there’s only so much pity one can take from their teenager!”
Armed with a mood board of colour palettes, preferred necklines, coveted cosmetics and (weep) a teddy bear, I told her, with confidence, it all looked feasible. Her eyes – how they twinkled! Her dimples, how merry!
And there it was anew, that joy parents live for. Now, go to bed, please.
