How are you? Firstly please don't think I am being too formal by calling you Father Christmas. It appears you are now called Santa. But I refuse to call you Santa. Even if it was made like a rule by Coca Cola who invented Christmas. I digress.
You may already be aware of my daughter. She sent you a letter asking for a 'Hello Kitty Secret Princess Computer'. I am quite, quite glad that you're around as this particular toy doesn't exist in the whole wide world. If you don't use some sort of magic to invent it I'm going to be f*cked on Christmas Day. Sorry. Must not swear. I'll be on the naughty list. And I really want some Yankee Candles, new slippers and a dressing gown 'for best' this year.
Anyway. You may have noticed my three year old is being a bit of a sod of late. There was the incident when I asked her to be super quiet in front of our poorly cat. And she screamed solidly and consistently in his tired, ill looking face for five minutes. Whilst laughing. I'm not saying she caused it. But... he's now dead. Or the time I saw her walk up to her Dad and punch him three times in the face. Oh and the occasion where she smeared poo all over herself, the bed and the wall.
You will also notice. She is bloody clever that one. She's got street smarts and knows full well that her bloody good outweighs her bad. She's pretty much got the non existing secret computer in the bag from you. She's managing to cling onto the nice list. Just. But recently. Something truly magical has been happening in my household. You.
On an (unreasonably early to be fair) November 1st you arrived on our television. You are now the main star of the books she has been picking for her poundland treat of the week. You my fine bearded man. Are my new weapon of choice. And you're working a bloody Christmas miracle. The other day during a particularly nasty tantrum in Birmingham city centre. She stumbled a little. I looked at the already being put up (?) Christmas lights and exclaimed "Did you know Father Christmas has magic powers? And when he sees someone being naughty. He makes their feet slip. And these 'slippy feet' are a sign that presents are being took away. Everytime you slip? That's another one gone". My husband glared. I would like to think out of wonder and love of his clever wife. But? It looked a bit more like anger.
And my girl?
Some say cute fairy. I say one mere scream from the naughty list
Wept solidly for an hour. Tears of terror. Tears of sadness. And since then? She's been the dream. Any hint of a tantrum or a scream or a punch. And I shake my head sadly and quietly whisper "slippy feet" and she stops. So thank you Father Christmas. I now have a full six weeks of good behaviour ahead of me. You have given me a gift even better than some overpriced Boots 342 gift Sanctuary giftsets. I am forever in your debt.
Before I go. Please could you have a quick word with the Easter bunny? Come December 25th he needs to take over the behaviour management of my child. Instead of 'slippy feet' I am thinking of something to do with a scratchy nose. Still working on the finer details. Anyway love to Mary Christmas (she will NEVER be Mrs Claus to me).
Love Em xxx