“Off in the distance, I hear the sound of sleigh bells…”
My first thought is SANTA! My inner child getting excited on Christmas Eve night, but then I remembered back when I was eight and caught my Mum putting the presents under the tree while my Dad ate the biscuits I had left out for Santa and drank up all the milk. I was only going downstairs to get some water and yet my dreams had instead been shattered.
The sleigh bells are coming from my husband, wearing that ridiculous Santa hat as he puts all of our presents under the tree and into the stockings, ready for the kids to marvel at them in the morning.
He’s finished, as he climbs the stairs back to me.
Even after finding out about Santa so brutally when I was young, I thought that I should carry on the tradition of Santa with my children.
Now, I have two – a boy and a girl, both still only four and six – who are waiting in their beds for the morning when they can run downstairs to check their presents and grab their full stockings, ready to bring them up to my bedroom, jump on my bed and open them.
I open my eyes slightly to see my husband taking off the ridiculous Santa hat and putting it away in the wardrobe before getting into bed beside me.
‘All done?’ I ask, twisting over and cuddling into his chest.
I feel his chin brush my forehead as he nods, breathing out heavily as he falls to sleep.
Smiling, I close my eyes too.
Christmas tomorrow. I can’t wait.