I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

December has hit us harder than a dispute between Chris Brown and Rihanna. For the majority of students out there December represents two nightmares Christmas exams and Santa Claus. Lately, I have lost my creativity flair (I imagine it has deceitfully strolled next door to the neighbours and considering we are not on first name speaking terms it might be slightly awkward going over there pleading for it back). Hence, I have ran out of blog-post ideas. Not one to be defeated without a fight, I took to the internet for a solution and uncovered content citing fifty random suggestions for a blog-post. It should keep my artistic juices gushing for a bit, well until the neighbours stop feeding my creativity their leftovers and it is compelled to shamefully retreat home.

Me, on the hunt for some inspiration.

Back on topic, this post (as the title proposes) tells the tale on how I exposed the secret of Santa Claus. Unlike many of my readers who wouldn't have made this discovery until they were in their late teens/early twenties I uncovered the truth when I was dangerously young, eight years old to be precise. Regrettably, this was not due to an over active mind but rather down to my own parents' clumsiness.

The revelation occurred on one classic Christmas eve. It involved four extremely hyperactive young children in the house. We have this tradition at home where we visit the mother's parents on the night before Santa's arrival. This grandmother was a typical doting darling and overloaded us with sweets rigged in juicy e-numbers. A common result of this was we went stone mad cracked. Yes, the speed talking activated, trails of empty packets and wrappers everywhere, oodles of slightly jittery movements, fast talking all at once and simultaneously eyes roaming around the room not prepared to go to bed. We cruised home, parents eager to get us to sleep before the visitor due in later on that night arrived. The comedown effect unfolded and my fellow warriors gave in and surrendered into bed. I, their leader was very suspicious of the parents as they never ever usually adapted a strict bedtime schedule with us yet every Christmas eve we were sentenced to bed at eight o'clock sharp. Eventually, I headed to bed after severe pleading from the aul pair.

Sometime later in the night, I lay there awake so caught up in the excitement of tomorrow morning's events to sleep. Frustrations levels ultimately peaked and I descended down the stairs to the intended comfort of mammy and daddy. However, I opened the sitting room door to a scene of horror, my parents with the Santa presents.

Me: 'What are ye doing?' I asked this calmly, most likely in a state of shock.

Father: 'Get into bed you little pup, I thought you were sleeping' Himself, traumatised took to assign the blame onto me. He was also muttering rude obscenities under his breath, which he mistakenly suspected I didn't notice.

Mother: 'Honey, why aren't you curled up in bed for tomorrow morning?' Always my favourite parent, she sensibly knew not to cause further anguish to my childhood by yelling at me in the midst of this devastating incident.

Me: 'What are ye doing with our presents?' At this stage, I had made the presumption that my parents were malicious enough to be robbing the Christmas presents of their own children.

There was a good twenty second pause.

Father: 'What are you doing up?' Applying repetition obviously still overwhelmed and anxious to shift the blame, the fucker.

Me: 'I couldn't sleep and I was thirsty' The lie every child professes when questioned why they are out of their bed at a late hour and not experiencing the wonders of slumber vile.

Mother: 'Right, well go fetch yourself a drink and then head to bed as we are just "doing" your Santa presents for the morning. I'll explain properly to you tomorrow'.

Me: 'Okay' My eyes swelling up.

Mother: 'Now keep this to yourself Pee or else no birthday presents or party for you this year' One of the many disadvantages of having a birthday so close to Christmas.

So I went to bed, snoozing soundly at ease that there wasn't some random stranger due in later that night to break into our home and eat our good biscuits. The next day was still as magical as always and that year I had the best birthday yet, my parents so consumed with guilt paid their penance in endless party bags, pass the parcel mania and musical chair tantrums. The tooth fairy had a poor run after this and her stint was short lived, but what my parents saved financially though this ordeal they made up for in the braces fiasco that shadows teenagers.