The other day a friend gave us a gingerbread house kit. Flattered that she obviously thought I was some kind of domestic Blue Peter presenter type goddess, we ripped open the box with gusto and washed our hands with wetwipes, ready for our first foray into self builds.
On discovering that all there was in the box was the biscuit and a diagram of a duchess potato bag, I phoned my cake making friend just to confirm that we stuck it together with mashed potato? No, apparently icing sugar, which we didn’t have. But we did have melted chocolate, which doesn’t do the same thing. Neighbour to the rescue and a ton of icing sugar is thrown(literally) into the mix, so it now resembles “pooey toothpaste”
One helper down (“This is taking 100 years”), our journey to our very own Hansel and Gretel paradise went like this….
After an infinity of snapped doors ( “so Father Christmas doesn’t get stuck in the chimney”) We got the roof on ! Get us! Grand Designs, here we come!
Then the roof caves in and all hopes of meeting Kevin himself are dashed. Until, we have a brainwave and we build a guest wing complete with heating and lights. Smug.
Unfortunately, our pride is somewhat quashed by screams of ” You didn´t listen to Fireman Sam, did you? ” followed by pointy fingers ” No fire in small houses! ” he bellows, frantically blowing out the candles and tucking into the guest wing.
I can’t remember if I read or heard (or completely made it up for the sake of this blog) somebody saying that the most barbaric lie you can tell your or anybody’s offspring is the Father Christmas one. I beg to differ and if I could keep living the lie until the boys are at least 46, that would be amazing.
A quick Google search shows that nobody has suffered long term effects from finding out the truth, (whispers, you know that he doesn’t really travel by sleigh) except maybe me. One lie leads to another? I disagree, everybody knows that the aeroplane that just went over our house contains Secret Service elves, checking how many times you have walloped your brother and making sure you declare that Kinder Egg you ate in the supermarket at the check – out . Oh yes and the same goes for the huge Big Brother style screens at FC’s headquarters. He’s on the ball. It’s also a brilliant source of bribery negotiating that comes into play at 12:01am on December 26th.
As I write this, THEY (whoever THEY are) are tutting loudly, yes yes yes of course lying is not on ever. Unless of course you are being interrogated by two grumpy boys demanding to know what`s happened to their chocolate button supply. “Daddy ate it” you say sadly, hugging them as you wipe your chocolate face in their hair. But I try to imagine Christmas in our house without the magic giddiness of Father Christmas’ imminent crash down the chimney (O has asked if we can have a chimney for Christmas) and I shudder to think.
For a year after I was told the “truth”, I remember pretending I didn’t recognise my Mum’s wavy Sherry induced handwriting and I think in my coming to terms with it, I kindly passed the information on to my sister, who was 4 years younger. BAH HUMBUG to me.
In fact, just this morning O remembered that he had seen Father Christmas twice. Then there was a moment’s silence as some thoughts travelled across his Christmas list filled mind before he announced “ Once he had glasses and a ginormous belly and the other time he was really short and not very fat , remember Mummy?” I try and hide in my coffee cup, but am saved by random four year old reasoning “ Oh , it’s ok!” he says relieved, “ I just remembered it must have been his brother….”