Despite all the sickness, Christmas was wonderful this year. At nearly seven, five and a half and nearly three, my big boys loved every minute of it. Harry vascillated between saying ‘I know that you fill the stockings, Mum’ and watching the skies for Father Christmas’s sleigh with uncontained excitement.
Even though he is on the cusp of knowing, neither Matthew nor I remember being scarred for life about finding out the truth and wouldn’t dream of discouraging something that is clearly so exciting. Life is crap enough, I say, let the children have some fun. One day he will know unequivocally and then we will encourage him to share the secret with us so that his younger siblings have the same excitement. That is as much a rite of passage as any I can think of.
Besides, he knows that Father Christmas only fills the stockings of children who believe. And he isn’t stupid, that son of mine.
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