Okay well I know, it is way past midnight and we are now into day 7.
I woke up the children this morning by blasting Fairytale of New York up the stairs (or if we are being pedantic, yesterday morning. I always get myself in a bit of a muddle post midnight. I maintain that until I have either gone to sleep or the sun has risen we are still considered to be living the same day).
The day was then a pretty standard Christmas Eve, we had that traditional moment when you realise you have thought of everything bar lunch and a last minute trip to the shops for bread, ham, milk etc is required. I think that puts my number of last trips to the shops for forgotten essentials almost into the double figures.
I instigated a new tradition this year, it is our first just the three of us so I thought why not. I found out why not. While organising gifts last week I decided that the new onesie (why do I hate that pretender of a word so much?) sleepwear that had been designated Father Christmas would really be nicer to have to go to bed in on Christmas Eve. I see many of my Facebook friends doing the most lovely ‘Christmas Eve boxes’ so I decided to wrap them up under the tree as ‘Christmas Eve’ gifts to be opened up at 6pm. The boy was just wild with excitement and asked me the time every 30 seconds for the entire day. I started to worry the children would be scarred for life due to crushing disappointment when the allotted time finally arrived for the great unwrapping. Apart from repeat that the gift was most defiantly not a toy with every time check there wasn’t much more I could do. I hope that if I keep this new tradition going that next year wont be quite so insufferable but saying that, they where very exited by fleecy sleepwear, so much so that the boy used his to emulate a bull whip around his head and nearly had the tree down and an early start to my spring cleaning by bringing everything off the shelves.
So here I am, past 2am. I actually had all the wrapping done and the stockings (blooming sacks, sacks!) ready to go at just after midnight however I needed to sneak into the children’s rooms and get the small traditional stocking from the ends of the beds. After last years fiasco that only needed slight dramatisation to turn into my festive fiction offering, this year I changed the rules. Father Christmas now delivers to stockings (sacks!) under the tree while leaving a very small token stocking on the end of the bed (because you just have to have the moment of waking up and finding a full stocking, well in my world you do anyhow!). Unfortunately while I was doing vital
Facebooking last moment preparations before bed I heard a bedroom door creak and the patter of little feet into the bathroom. While I am almost certain that this was the girl I am now too frightened to go up and check on the off chance if was in fact the boy and I get rumbled two years in a row. This is only my 10th year doing this parenting thing and I really don’t want to up my failure rate to 20%, statistics like that just don’t look good. So I wait.
And wait. I heard the girls bed creaking. Dam it!