Freddie's Play Pad

“Shhhhhh!“

C clearly wants me to shut up but the reason is not immediately obvious.

We are at Freddy’s Play Pad in a church hall in Droitwich. A dozen or so littles are pottering about in and around the central play area. Th two biggest are chasing, racing, and generally unintentionally terrorising not so much the tottering toddlers but their anxious mothers. And somebody dressed as Father Christmas has just gone around the room greeting the assembled punters. By some coincidence the organiser, Paul, was absent during this visitation.

Eventually the penny has drops and I recognise C's concern. I was agreeing, thoughtlessly, with what Oscar has just announced.

Oscar (three-and-a-half) has just declared that Santa Christmas (sic) was really Freddy (sic) dressed up. And instead of agreeing with him I should have been telling him to keep quiet and not spoil it for the younger ones who might think it’s really Santa! 

To emphasise his point Oscar quips that, anyway, the Santa at twins group on Monday wore glasses and this version does not. I hastily tell him not to pass on his insight to the younger children. (Omitting to add that it may spoil their warped view of the world which may or may not be slightly more warped than his.)

I always had a problem with fibbing to my children. I never spun the any bollocks about Father Christmas bringing presents etc. If they believed that stuff it wasn't down to me, for sure. I'm don't know what supernatural beliefs Oscar has, and am not about to challenge them, but I have to applaud his Holmes-like scepticism!