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
– 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?