Kitty was a little ball of wrigglish Christmas spirit by Christmas Eve. Father Christmas had sent an elf on an advance party – to check that the magic of our tree would allow entry to our house of course – and left new pyjamas in the girls’ stockings. She helped me bake and stir in between watching Christmas cartoons and running around telling everyone it was Christmas soon, and telling her sister not to touch the Christmas presents, “No Elma, they for tomorrow!”.
Elma was less than impressed, but then she has grown five new teeth since last Sunday, with all the traditional teething side effects, and has been less than impressed at anything other than sitting in my arms, or being fed more baby nurophen or teetha sachets. Poor darling, I hope (all fingers and toes crossed) that we’re through the worst of it now.
Last year both girls fell fast asleep all through the crib service so I’m pleased to report that they managed to stay awake this time; and it was a brilliant nativity play by Sunday Club, all written and performed by the children, who get cleverer and more inventive as they get older; this year’s was all done as segments from a Nazareth National News broadcast, complete with an ad break featuring ROAD – Riding On A Donkey for all your donkey or camel needs!
And then it was time for Christmas bath, Christmas PJs, Christmas storytime, and the all important laying out of the stockings; Elma chose the plate, Kitty choose the exact mince pie.
And then Christmas sleep.
Kitty woke up not ridiculously early, but before Elma, and so she tucked up next to me in our bed, and we lay there in the dim early morning light, whispering under the covers, as the faint forerunners of the sunlight peeking round the curtains lit up the sparkle in her eyes. And in the deep blustery night must have come a sleigh pulled by tiny reindeer because when we got downstairs, the tree seemed to shimmer in reflected sparkle from the wrapping paper below, and four stockings lay nobbly and bulging in front.
She ran to the plate, and there, where a mince pie and scotch had stood the night before was an empty glass, and beside it, a little tiny Father Christmas, the perfect size for our Christmas village.
He’s going to go back to the North Pole over the course of the year, and then come and visit again next year I think.
We went to church to sing with hearts bursting with joy, and came home to snuggle up in a haze of tinsel, turkey and champagne.
And while it was just the four of us here, we had the rest of the family on Skype (complete with festive jumpers) and at the end of the phone throughout the day.
We watched the Queen’s Speech, although we had to explain to Kitty that the Queen really truly is a Queen, and that that little boy in a long christening gown really truly is a Prince, and that they do exist outside of a Disney film (I’m not sure she quite believes us), and The Snowman, and simply sat in a glow of happiness and wrapping paper. A truly lovely Christmas.