It's November, folks, as I may have mentioned before. November. OK, so by the time you read this it could easily be December, it being nearly upon us and me not being what you might call the most diligent of bloggers.
Anyway, so it's definitively not December and yet, and yet the spud knows all the words (or at least, something that sounds proximate) to Jingle Bells, a song he defiantly refused to learn, sing or acknowledge last year. Not only knows the words, but insists on singing them relentlessly over and over and over.
Every day, he tells us that Christmas is coming. Every day we say 'not yet' and he says 'yes it is' and we say 'not yet' and he say 'soon'!!!! I ask him what will happen on Christmas day and he says 'Christmas Tree!' and that seems about that. He's not jumping up and down for presents but he did drag out a book about Thomas and the Christmas Tree today which we haven't read in a year and which I thought he'd forgotten about.
It's not good enough that everywhere we go is covered in spangles and tinsel; it's not enough that
No, these things are not enough. On top of all this hard-core commercial spew from the gorge of Mammon himself, we must have an over-excited three year old for the entirety of the time between Samhain and Yule.
Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. I may not be a Christian but I love and in some way truly believe the story of the nativity, the birth of the child of light just as our little globe tilts our hemisphere back towards the sun. I love the whole schmoo, the mince pies and mulled wine, the chaos of friends and family, the rustle of secret wrappings; the velvet quiet of Christmas Eve midnight, carols and figgy pudding and broken ornaments and that feeling, just after lunch the next day, when one realises that no matter what the light might say, Christmas is the longest day of the year.
I love it, but I don't want it rammed down my throat and more importantly, I don't want it rammed down my son's throat. He's only three. The anticipation is ruining everything.