My teenage girl emerged from Santa’s grotto, clutching her present to her chest. My little boy followed behind her, handing his present over to me. I piled it on top of the sticker set, two teddies, and two overflowing ‘crazy cups’ we’d bought/won on the stalls at the school Christmas bazaar. These in turn were teetering in a Giant Jenga-style pile of coats, hats, bookbags, and a cycle helmet. My arms were beginning to ache.
“I’ve run out of hands!” I complained.
“We’ve got six between us,” nodded my boy, sagely, before running off to find his scooter, without helping me unload.
My daughter, the one who has announced that she doesn’t believe in God but still believes in Father Christmas, gave me a hopeful look. She’s got this whole “Santa has helper Santas so it’s not always the real one” thing going on, but I could tell she’d been quite convinced by this particular Santa’s spiel.
“Do you think that was the real Father Christmas, Mum?” she asked, her eyes shining.
A voice piped up from behind her. Her brother had returned, riding his scooter. “Nope," he told her, as he whizzed past. He looked back over his shoulder. "That was Mr Barker. I recognised his voice.”
"Can we line up all the people with Prader-Willi?” my daughter asked, tugging at my sleeve.
“Line them up?” I visualised a Usual Suspects police mugshot-type scenario. “Do you mean take a group photo?”
“Yeah.”
So we did. The lining up consisted more of a coralling them into a haphazard, higgledy piggledy crowd, with Santa at the centre. It may or may not have been the real Father Christmas.
Today’s party was a festive get-together organised by parents and the Prader-Willi Syndrome Association, held in a Mormon Church Hall. The church has kindly hosted the event for the past couple of years. The same white-haired Mormon elder as last year did a Clark Kent and vanished shortly before an American-accented Santa appeared. The kids didn’t seem to twig that he only came from the North Pole if the North Pole is ever so slightly north of the centre of Salt Lake City. ‘Santa’ also put his big black wellies in it, when he said to a young lad with PWS who was wearing a roast turkey hat: “You're going to make us all hungry, looking at that!” It was a PWS party. You know, the syndrome where people never physically feel full up. Trust me, Santa, buddy, they don't need a hat to make them feel hungry.
There was a cartoon character theme to today’s do. Most people dug out Spiderman T-shirts, or Frozen dresses. Spectacularly, one mum and daughter came as The Queen of Hearts and Alice In Wonderland. There were a few onesies, and a snowman. We had couple of tantrums, some umming and yumming over the tasty, healthy lunch, loads of sticking and glueing on the Make Your Own Christmas Cards table, and various levels of dancing, from half-hearted to seriously wild.
I love these get-togethers.
The icing on the cake, or rather the pineapple on top of the sugar-free jelly, was a special goodbye from a gorgeous little red-haired girl.
Solemnly shy when she’d arrived, she’d lost her initial bashfullness and latched on to my daughter. My teenager had happily mothered her, allowing her to sit on her lap, holding on to her tiny hand as they stood swaying on the dance floor. I’d watched them, grinning, remembering my daughter cuddling her as a baby, just a couple of summers ago. Here they were again, two beautiful girls, with the same missing slither of a tiny chromosome. One tiny, one 4ft 10 and a half inches tall. Happy to buddy up.
And now, my daughter’s rediscovered friend had pottered over to me on her own as I was gathering together our coats and bags. She took my hand, and started to chat, excitedly. I had to crouch down to hear her, ignoring the strains of Let It Go coming out of the disco speakers. (I also ignored my son, in my periphery vision, bending down and miming farts in a daring reinterpretation of the song’s lyrics. At least I hope he was miming).
She told me she’d just kissed my daughter on the cheek. And then she beamed and did the same to me. It was a little smacker I'll treasure.
The sound of The Tweenies' Christmas Album is blasting out through our house. My daughter is approximating the tunes and jigging about in a festive manner.
At this time of year she normally has an attack of the collywobbles, sparked by the nagging thought that perhaps she hasn’t been good enough to make Santa’s Nice List.
I was convinced the levels of worry would reach supersonic levels this December after recent displays of unprecedented boundary-testing. The triple whammy of teenage hormones, emotional immaturity, and a stubborn streak a mile wide, have seen a late surge of crosses in the Naughty Column. When was she going to have a contrition meltdown?
The answer came the other day. She buried her head in a notebook and began to write. An hour later she presented me with a two page Apology To End All Apologies.
“We’d better get this to Father Christmas,” she told me solemnly. “Quickly.”
Dear Santa,
I do apologise about my behaviour last week. I am really sorry about reading at midnight and later. I am really sorry about not listen to my Mum and staying awake all night. I was really upset because dad hit my bed but not me, Santa.* I do not have enough space on the page and I would like to tell you more about my behaviour, Santa...
...I am really sorry for getting up for a book at midnight to put in my schoolbag and my Mum and Dad was mad at me. And Dad chucked my Princess Magazine in my bag. I am really sorry about not listen to the teachers at school and Mum and Dad was absolutely livid indeed at me.* I am really sorry about my silly behaviour, Santa, and very sorry about sillying behaviour at school.
lots of love from J.
I am really sorry about being naughty girl before Christmas. Am I on the nice list for Christmas? Will you tell me I am a good girl for Christmas on the video Mum has got on the computer like last year?
lots of love from J again.
I am really sorry for doing.
lots of love from J.
xxx
xxx
xxx
*Her Dad did indeed smack his hand down on her bed in exasperation at one point during the Night Of The Long Books; Social Services please note the BUT NOT ME bit.
*I am now adopting ‘absolutely livid indeed’ as my phrase of choice to indicate all levels of irritation or anger.
So, what do you think? My conclusion is that she should be completely forgiven for any misdemeanours. If you don’t think this is the fulsomest of fulsome apologies, then you will be forcibly fed cold Brussels sprouts until you agree.
Video is Johnny Cash - Folsom Prison Blues. Yes, I know it's a stretch, but I had to make up for the following tune...
Song is The Tweenies - Santa Claus Is Coming To Town Related Posts: Moody Unhinged
