I’m usually full of the Christmas joy, but I’m not feeling it this year… like, at all. Someone needs to jingle my bells, cause I am a bit grinchy.  I have even cranked up some Christmas tunes as I type this, to incite some kind of Yule Tide flow. It hasn’t helped because I am now just getting sad that poor old George Michael, rest his soul, gave his heart to that arse-hole who regifted it on boxing day…and I call bullshit that Mariah doesn’t want much for Christmas. Yeah, OK Mariah… I’m sure you’d be happy with me wrapped up under your tree?

Maybe it’s the heat, or our stupid prick of a Prime Minister going on a holiday with his church buddies, while the country he is meant to be leading is literally on fire. Talk about not reading the room Scotty. Maybe it’s a hang-over from Term 4 or the fact that the dog keeps digging up the garden and the cat shit behind my desk again. Apparently, the shower isn’t doing it for her anymore.

One thing that boosted me out of some ‘meh-ness’ was the excitement on Elliot’s face this morning as he was glued to the TV, watching secret camera setups to catch Father Christmas deliver presents. Geez people have a lot of time on their hands, I thought, but bless their Christmas stockings because my baby boy is remaining a solid believer in the Big Fella now that some magical facts have been pumped through his eyes via some random weirdo’s YouTube channel. It may come across as selfish that I want my youngest to keep believing that a white-bearded man in a red suit delivers presents to every house in a single night while flying through the night skies led by reindeers…but I don’t care. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want big kids yet who don’t believe in Father Christmas. Just let me have one believer…please? It really just makes everything more Christmassy and fun and magical, seeing the joy on little people’s faces, and I for one, need some fun and magic right about now.

There will, of course, come a time very soon that the final believer in our house will discover the truth. The truth that Father Christmas, as he knows him, doesn’t exist; that there are no elves at the North Pole; that Rudolph doesn’t pull the sleigh; that Elf on the shelf doesn’t magically move to obscure places by himself; and that Mr Hooch drinks the beer and I eat the biscuit that is lovingly left out on Christmas Eve.

As I write this, I am reminded of a beautiful letter written by Martha Brockencrough to her daughter Lucy in 2009. It’s been around for a while now, so you may have read it, but if you’re like me and clutching onto the last few years of your youngest child’s innocence and wonder, this may trigger an ugly cry…. grab a tissue.

 

Dear Lucy,

Thank you for your letter. You asked a very good question: “Are you Santa?”

I know you’ve wanted the answer to this question for a long time, and I’ve had to give it careful thought to know just what to say.

The answer is no. I am not Santa. There is no one Santa.

I am the person who fills your stockings with presents, though. I also choose and wrap the presents under the tree, the same way my mom did for me, and the same way her mom did for her. (And yes, Daddy helps, too.)

I imagine you will someday do this for your children, and I know you will love seeing them run down the stairs on Christmas morning. You will love seeing them sit under the tree, their small faces lit with Christmas lights.

This won’t make you Santa, though.

Santa is bigger than any person, and his work has gone on longer than any of us have lived. What he does is simple, but it is powerful. He teaches children how to believe in something they can’t see or touch.

It’s a big job, and it’s an important one. Throughout your life, you will need this capacity to believe: in yourself, in your friends, in your talents, and in your family. You’ll also need to believe in things you can’t measure or even hold in your hand. Here, I am talking about love, that great power that will light your life from the inside out, even during its darkest, coldest moments.

Santa is a teacher, and I have been his student, and now you know the secret of how he gets down all those chimneys on Christmas Eve: He has help from all the people whose hearts he’s filled with joy.

With full hearts, people like Daddy and me take our turns helping Santa do a job that would otherwise be impossible.

So, no. I am not Santa. Santa is love and magic and hope and happiness. I’m on his team, and now you are, too.

I love you and I always will.

Mama

 

Well, wouldn’t you know it… I think Martha helped me find some Christmas joy.

Merry Christmas, especially to those loyal few who take the time to read my dribbly little blog which brings me quite a bit of enjoyment as I tap away, sending my thoughts out to nowhere.

May you all find a tonne of love, magic, hope and happiness.

M