"Naughty Elves and The Dreaded Gift Exchange"

Yesterday in the kitchen while eating dinner, Dumpie shook his head woefully.  "I don't think I'm going to get any presents from Santa because I've been naughty."

Egg glanced over from where he was cello-taping various kitchen implements together in his latest invention.  "That's true Dumps...I don't think you will."

If I'm being frank, the boys haven't exactly been angels this past week, but then again they are little boys and I can hardly expect them to act like little princes I suppose (although how nice would that be?).

If for any reason I end up dying young and the husband is left to raise our charges solo, I suggest he hook up with some perky young camp counsellor or activities co-ordinator...for that's what children really need.  Bored, unchallenged children seek their own fun, and if (as Dumpie demonstrated yesterday) that means drawing a Christmas picture reducing your expensive, discontinued lip liner into a useless little nub - then so be it.

The boys are terribly excited about Christmas this year...ridiculously so.  Given that this is undoubtedly the last year they shall believe in Santa (and I'm not even 100% sure they do - they are clever chaps and have already had vehement discussions among themselves about the improbability of a fat man gaining entrance via a chimney to deliver toys they haven't even asked for...not to mention the fact that many homes don't even have chimneys...) we are trying to make it as special as possible.

For the husband and I, Christmas is usually an excuse (and an excellent one at that) for guzzling bubbly, sipping fine wines and stuffing ourselves stupid with cheeses and homemade shortbread.  However, given my current state of being 7.5 months pregnant (a really sexy look, believe me), the severe heartburn and limited stomach space I suffer from these days - not to mention the fact that I'm supposed to be tee-total at present...it doesn't make for the most indulgent of Christmases I reckon.

Having been together for twenty-odd years now, the husband was (understandably) delighted a few weeks ago, to catch me at a weak moment and declare a mutual agreement that this year we will abstain from giving each other presents.  True, the prospect of shopping in claustrophobic crowd formations, aggressively trying to protect my ever-expanding bump, all the while seeking out my next toilet pit stop - well, hardly something I was looking forward to.

However, as Christmas creeps closer, I have found myself acquiring a few 'little' things for the husband - as to have nothing at all would seem rather churlish I'm afraid.  This of course is the first he will have heard of this, and may right this second be reading this with a look of horror on his face and every intention of racing out to the nearest department store for some perfume or (god forbid) misjudged 'maternity lingerie'.

But I would just like to say, "Don't worry about it my love."  For although I find practical gift-giving between lovers nothing short of depressing (excepting anything with an apple logo on it of course) I nonetheless feel that forgoing present giving altogether is even worse than gifting your other half with a new hoover or kitchen aid.

So really, I do not want anything (or want for anything for that matter)...truly.  I just don't want to be one of those sad 'practical' couples who put common sense over sentiment.  After all, if it weren't for love and all that gooey stuff, I wouldn't find myself currently knocked up now would I?

So if you're reading this dear husband, don't fret.  I've got it covered.  In the absence of anything trincketry or jewellery-box-sized under the tree this year, just know that come Feb, after baby boy numero trois escapes from my swollen stomach, I shall be anticipating something small and expensive to compensate for the utter hell I will have undergone to provide you with the much coveted fourth member of your future 'band'.  Either way you won't escape unscathed :)

Just sayin'...

"Hark The Herald Eggie Sings..."

Egg is very upset today.  It has dawned on him that because he joined choir and an after school drama club, he will be expected to don (and I quote) "a stupid, stupid, silver hat" and sing carols around the after school Christmas Fair this afternoon.

He burst into our bedroom this morning, accidentally jumping on my ankle - almost spraining it in the process - and practically BEGGED me to get him out of it.  He said he is too shy to do it and that everyone will laugh at him.  I sighed...one of those pesky parenting conundrums:  get him out of it like a superstar cool mum, or teach him to be strong and do things that he's scared of so he can become a better, stronger person.

I of course went with the latter, but have planned a sneaky escape for him if things go pear-shaped and he really is miserable.  One crocodile tear and I'll have no choice but to save my little Egg from social suicide...we'll see.

On another note, in what was either enlightened genius and pure good luck OR crazy pregnant woman hormones, I impulsively bought our Christmas tree while out shopping this morning.  It was there, all 6 ft of it, plump and gorgeous and it just felt like it had to be ours.  I emptied my wallet on the spot and am taking delivery of it later today, but am now suffering the first pangs of buyers remorse and wondering whether it's going to be greeted by disdain by the husband - who is prone to splash out on obscenely priced and way too tall trees in a rather Griswold manner.  Hmmmm....

And so life continues on...I have approximately 9 more weeks in this fat suit before a screaming, squalling bundle of joy arrives to join our shambolic crew.  Can't believe how fast this pregnancy has gone, but hey I'm not complaining.  I'd be lying if I didn't confess to being mildly petrified about the logistics of labour at a hospital a good 20-30 minutes away in traffic - especially considering Dumpie came so fast that he was born in the bathroom.

And of course, having no car somewhat livens up the scenario a tad.

On the plus side, being the hyper-organised, multi-tasking freak that I am, I pretty much have Christmas sorted:  posh Christmas crackers (with silver-plated pressies inside no less - check me out), a rough menu planned out for indulgent stuffing of our respective tummies (though how much room is left in mine for food at that point remains questionable), and all the presents pretty much bought.

Sadly there is one problem I don't quite know how to undo:  in a fit of 'man-shed-rearranging' a few weekends ago, the husband unearthed my obviously 'not hidden well enough' box of xmas presents, left it in the hallway, and was as surprised as I when a short while later the monsters came upon it and started  pulling things out exclaiming excitedly.

So do I gloss over the whole thing and possibly dispel their belief in Santa Claus forever when they discover 'He' left them the exact same presents that they came upon that fateful day?  Or do I defy the recession, go out and buy them a load more presents, thereby ensuring we are buried - avalanche style - in a mountain of remote-controlled plastic come Boxing Day?

Off to mull over this conundrum by way of orgasmic pomegranate inhalation....adios