Christmas… Across the Pond

Santa Claus, Father Christmas, Pere Noel even Babushka; a symbol of Christmas transcends borders. Whatever he is known as, in countries across the world, children will be compiling their present lists, hoping that someone with a white beard and red coat will come up with the goods.

For me, this personifies the magic of the season and a Christmas doesn’t go by without me recalling personal treasured memories of those days when my children were young. It all goes into soft focus, the sheer excitement as they built up to the big event. We loved it – and would do what we could to wind them up into a frenzy of anticipation.

Naturally I suppose, it is with the first born, my daughter, that my memories are most vivid. We read the Christmas story to her over and over again, wallowing in the joy on her face as the big day drew nearer. And I was able to bring into play what I called, the seasonal threat, a scam I used to elicit good behaviour from her..

The usual threats of: “You won’t get any chocolate” or “Your bike will be locked in the shed,” could be mothballed for a few weeks. Instead it was simply: “He won’t come.”

“He will,” was the stubborn reply.

“Oh no he won’t. He doesn’t bring presents to naughty girls.”

“He will – won’t he?”

Doubt would start to creep in.

“How will he know I’ve been naughty?”

Defiance was turning to serious concern.

“I’ll tell him.”

All right, here I did feel a bit of heel, admitting that I would snitch to someone as important as Father Christmas that my little girl had misbehaved was maybe a step too far. But I was gaining the

upper hand.

“How will you get in touch with him?”

Tricky one this. I had to think quickly.

“I won’t need to if you tidy up your toys, make your bed and eat all your dinner.”

The prospect of being missed out of Santa’s present run was too much. She would become reluctantly obedient. Any time she stepped out of line in the run-up to the big day I’d drop a large hint that Santa had delegated an elf to keep a North Pole eye on her and, indeed, any other child that was naughty. He would report back to his sleigh-driving boss any houses that should be removed from the chimney list.

As I tucked her up in bed on Christmas Eve, a wide-eyed, anxious four-year-old looked up at me and said: “He will come won’t he? I have tried ever so hard to be good.”

“Of course he’ll come,” I replied. The trusting little face looking up at me brought a lump to my throat.

Boy did I feel guilty. I almost cracked and revealed the secret behind the seasonal threat. But just in time I remembered that this trump card has a limited shelf life.

After all, most of the time she was able to wrap me round her little finger, and like Santa, once a year it was nice to be in the driving seat.