I was sitting at the kitchen table with my 11-year-old son, discussing his Christmas list which he had sourced himself on the internet due to his mother’s terrible lack of organisational skills.
“You can get all of it on Amazon,” he was telling me, “and if you go for the second-hand options I can get five PS2 games and five books. And of course a surprise” he added, with a frown.
It was then he noticed his 8-year-old stepsister, eyeing us with concern. He paused.
“The thing is,” he directed at her “when you are my age Santa only brings you a couple of small presents, because he saves the best for the little ones”.
She looked satisfied, and went back to her supper. He winked at me knowingly. I felt a surge of love for my lovely, thoughtful, kind little boy and remembered my siblings cruelly disabusing me of the Santa myth when I was only three or four. Perhaps I have not been such a bad mother, I thought to myself, to produce such a lovely son. And my eyes welled with tears.
“Mum!” he said with disdain.
“What on earth are you crying about?!”
Oh, the joys of motherhood.