Christmas wishes

Christmas is enough pressure on a parent. You want everything to be perfect, jolly and memorable, with a fair dollop of some upstanding morals. That’s my opinion. The Wife, on the other hand, believes that it’s the time to change our kids from well behaved (ahem) little ambassadors of their upbringing into feral-eyed, excitement-fueled, sleep deprived, vibrating balls of concentrated energy.

Last Christmas, as with every Christmas, the Wife sat with the girls to create their annual letters to Santa. Personally I think it’s more for her dark motive of creating a froth-mouthed frenzy than actually letting the Fat Man know what the little ones want, but I nonetheless kept my reservations  to myself, and thus I present to you what my kids wanted for Christmas last year (abridged, lest I run the risk of writing a ponderously long post):

Youngest (four years old):

– a real baby duck

– a pet rabbit

– a can of cocoa cola

– a box of smarties

– a real live kitten

– basket to pick flowers

– the unicorn items: a real real unicorn, a toy unicorn that sings and dances, unicorn bedding, books, clothes and watch

– a Dora the Explorer toy that shoots smarties “into my mouth”

– a Sophia the First toy “that I can say goodnight to”.

– a bicycle.

 

Eldest (eight years old)

– a ticket to England

– laptop

– phone

– money

– ice skates, roller blades and high heels

– “my own tv”

– a guitar

– “for the whole family to be here”

– a kitten

– a magic kit with case and wand

– toy puppy

– a friendship kit and friendship books.

 

No pressure, right?

the Wife jumped off a cliff

The Wife was cold.

Understandable. This is because it was a clear and crisp winter’s morning. The temperature in single digits.

The Wife was exhausted.

Understandable, but less so. She’d just climbed a hill. Not Kilimanjaro or Everest, which would have been more proportional to the extent of exhaustion, but a hill. Love, if you read this, I’m sorry but it’s true.

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the Great Frog Incident of Twenty Sixteen

I spot Eldest from across the school car park and beckon to her. The diminutive figure of my eight-year-old precariously picks her bare-footed way along the gravel path towards the car, backpack shouldered and shoes in hand. This is normal because she attends a Montessori institution nestled against a mountain on the property of a wine farm. The children are surrounded by nature and happily for me this means that school pick up involves the collection of wild-haired and dirty children; sometimes bleeding but always grinning from ear to ear.  Today, however, she’s carrying a box. And the box has holes poked in the lid.Read More