George’s favourite song this Christmas is “When Santa got
stuck up the chimney”. We have probably
heard it 30 times in the last 3 days on the way to and from nursery. The second the song ends a little voice in
the back of the car pipes up “again mummy, again.”
Collecting him from nursery today I was told that the
children had spent the day dictating their letters for Father Christmas. George
hadn’t quite grasped the concept and instead insisted that his letter tell the
story of Santa being stuck in the chimney, wiggling not setting him free and
him having to be saved by a special fire engine with the hose and a
ladder. And a hose. (Credit here goes to
YouTube I believe, there’s no fire engine in my version of the song however I
did leave him with my phone the other day when needing a distraction as I got
myself sorted for the school run).
This evening coming back from nursery rather than listening
to the song we discussed it. For 15
minutes straight. Anyone who converses
regularly with a 2 year old will understand that any toddler chat lasting 15
minutes is in fact a 1 minute bit of chat in a constant loop. Here’s how our one went:
G: Mummy. Santa got
stuck in the chimney
Me: That’s right George.
Father Christmas got stuck.
G: No. Not Father
Christmas. <pause> Maybe... Santa?!
Me: They are the same George. Father Christmas and Santa are the same, they
both got stuck.
G: Yes mummy, that’s right.
Father Christmas and Santa both got stuck in the chimney and they couldn’t
get out.
Me: They ate too much chocolate.
G: They were too fat to get out. <pause> He has the
toys for the boys.
Me: That’s right. He’s
got presents for all the children and they are waiting for him.
G: The children need their toys and are waiting for Father Christmas
and Santa. Father Christmas and Santa are
stuck in the chimney. The children need their
toys. And the cows need their toys.
Me: The cows?
George: The cows and the sheep and the donkeys...and
the...COWS!!!
And so it continued.
We had another brilliant bit of toddler thinking just before
bath time when I started referring to Santa as Santa Claus...
George: That’s right mummy.
Santa Claus. He has terrible
tusks and terrible claws.
Me: Like the Gruffalo.
George: Terrible claws.
Grrr. Sharp and scary!
And so there you have it.
The Christmas myth grows in our household. Those who are good get Santa Claws. Those who are bad better watch out, Gruffalo
claws is coming for you.
