The boys and I are finding a new rhythm. School holiday rhythm. Slow mornings building to fever pitch in the afternoons. And underneath it all, an undercurrent of excitement.
Christmas is coming.
For me, it’s about To Do lists. For Mr3 it’s about logistics.
Where will Santa park his reindeer (there’s no point in being on the roof when the Fibro has no chimney)?
How does he fit the world’s presents on his sleigh?
Can we wait up to see him?
“We don’t have to,” says Mr6, matter of fact. “Daddy will meet him at the door so he can hand over the presents.”
Mr6 has always been very keen that a strange old man in a red suit should not be entering the house under cover of darkness. The presents, yes. The man, no.
“Well, I can wait with him,” says Mr3, who’s desperate to lay eyes on said man.
“I don’t think he’ll come if you’re there,” I say.
“I can hide behind Dad. He won’t even know I’m there.”
He’s a wily one, that Mr3. I envisage a long battle on Christmas Eve to get him to close his eyes. And even then, it wouldn’t surprise me to find him peeking through the blinds well after midnight.
Watching. Waiting. Hoping.
Don’t you wish Christmas held that much excitement for you again?