Daughter's new passion is to Google guitar chords so that she can play and sing along to all manner of X-Factor-soundy-likey numbers while she strums. She is actually pretty tuneful, so I cannot complain. I can shut the door, though. Particularly when she starts teaching Small Boy how to sing along to Christmassy Numbers.
Now, I like Christmas, I really do, and I love a good sing-along, but when your children bellow the likes of "Santa Claus is coming to town" or "Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day" or "All I want for Christmas is Yooo-hooooo!" at the top of their squeaky little voices, I begin to wish fervently that it was all over.
"So, all you want for Christmas is me?" I ask, after a particularly long drawn-out performance. "Well, that makes present-buying nice and easy."
Small Boy erupts into giggles and bounces around the room shouting, "Yes! You could wrap yourself up and put yourself under the tree!"
Daughter rolls her eyes heavenward. "She wouldn't fit," she mutters.
But Small Boy is still bouncing and giggling. I can always rely upon my son to find my sense of humour immensely pleasing, and since I know this won't last for much longer, I milk it for all it's worth. "I could stand in your room covered in paper and tinsel and ribbon and wait for you to wake up and find me on Christmas morning," I suggest.
Small Boy howls. "That would be SO COOL!" he shouts.
Daughter curls her lip and goes back to strumming and doing more X-Factor-style wailing noises.
"Hey!" says Small Boy, a glint developing dangerously in his already very beady eye. "Can I wrap myself up and be a surprise for Grandma and Grandpa on Christmas Day?"
"Er--" I hesitate, as an image comes to mind of the Aged Ps in their Aged PJs, staggering downstairs, the effects of their Christmas Eve drinking session still weighing heavily on their constitution, to be greeted by a Small Boy Jack-in-the-Box before they've had a chance to moan, "It really has been a dreadful year."
"Do you know what?" I say tentatively. "I don't think Grandma and Grandpa would see the funny side. I think you might actually give them a heart attack."
"But it would be HILARIOUS!" insists Small Boy.
It most probably would be, but I am not sure I am ready to deal with the consequences.
"No, I don't think so," I say firmly.
Small Boy looks momentarily disappointed. Then the glint comes back and he says, "What about if I wrapped Grandma and Grandpa up and they could be a surprise for Dad?" He hesitates. "Or, would that give him a heart attack too?"
I bite my lip and try to stay serious. "Yes, I think it probably would."
But he has given me an idea. I am going to give Small Boy full licence to act on the first person to say, "It really has been a dreadful year" - they will be boxed and gift-wrapped and shut in a room before you can shout "annus horribilis"!
That would be my perfect Christmas present.
Now, I like Christmas, I really do, and I love a good sing-along, but when your children bellow the likes of "Santa Claus is coming to town" or "Oh I wish it could be Christmas every day" or "All I want for Christmas is Yooo-hooooo!" at the top of their squeaky little voices, I begin to wish fervently that it was all over.
"So, all you want for Christmas is me?" I ask, after a particularly long drawn-out performance. "Well, that makes present-buying nice and easy."
Small Boy erupts into giggles and bounces around the room shouting, "Yes! You could wrap yourself up and put yourself under the tree!"
Daughter rolls her eyes heavenward. "She wouldn't fit," she mutters.
But Small Boy is still bouncing and giggling. I can always rely upon my son to find my sense of humour immensely pleasing, and since I know this won't last for much longer, I milk it for all it's worth. "I could stand in your room covered in paper and tinsel and ribbon and wait for you to wake up and find me on Christmas morning," I suggest.
Small Boy howls. "That would be SO COOL!" he shouts.
Daughter curls her lip and goes back to strumming and doing more X-Factor-style wailing noises.
"Hey!" says Small Boy, a glint developing dangerously in his already very beady eye. "Can I wrap myself up and be a surprise for Grandma and Grandpa on Christmas Day?"
"Er--" I hesitate, as an image comes to mind of the Aged Ps in their Aged PJs, staggering downstairs, the effects of their Christmas Eve drinking session still weighing heavily on their constitution, to be greeted by a Small Boy Jack-in-the-Box before they've had a chance to moan, "It really has been a dreadful year."
"Do you know what?" I say tentatively. "I don't think Grandma and Grandpa would see the funny side. I think you might actually give them a heart attack."
"But it would be HILARIOUS!" insists Small Boy.
It most probably would be, but I am not sure I am ready to deal with the consequences.
"No, I don't think so," I say firmly.
Small Boy looks momentarily disappointed. Then the glint comes back and he says, "What about if I wrapped Grandma and Grandpa up and they could be a surprise for Dad?" He hesitates. "Or, would that give him a heart attack too?"
I bite my lip and try to stay serious. "Yes, I think it probably would."
But he has given me an idea. I am going to give Small Boy full licence to act on the first person to say, "It really has been a dreadful year" - they will be boxed and gift-wrapped and shut in a room before you can shout "annus horribilis"!
That would be my perfect Christmas present.
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