On Sunday our family got a Christmas tree. We bought two of them actually, one for inside and one for outside. We are readying our No-Men, as named by Nick our Light Lover. The twins were beside themselves readying buying their “Father Christmas Tree”, as they insist on calling it. The trees go up this weekend (we were keen to rock the Christmas, not keen to do so prior to 1 December) and the twins are already mental about Christmas.

I confess to being pretty mental that it’s coming, too.

The twins met Father Christmas the other day. The local school had a Christmas Fayre that we attended (I insisted – I might be on bedrest but I can see the local school that we want our kids to go to, dammit, and I can bloody well see Father Christmas with the kids, too). The school was sweet and perfect and the twins – who have long been practicing what to say to Father Christmas when they saw him – both froze in abject terror and didn’t say a single word. Later, they boasted that they weren’t scared, which got a prompt laugh each time.

Last week we were driving to my doctor’s appointment and from the backseat came:

“Jemima is going to be a donkey.”

Alastair and I look at each other.

“Um…what, sweetheart?” I asked.

“Jemima is going to be a donkey,” Nora repeated. Jemima is one of the twins’ carers are the nursery. Why she was going as a recalcitrant equus I was not clear.

“Oh. OK, babes. Why is Jemima a donkey?”

“Because we have a baby.”

What the hell?

“A baby?”

“Yes, Mummy. We have a baby.”

Then the lightbulb came on.

“Aha! Where is this baby, Nora?”

“In Beth-Le-Hem,” she replied solemnly, saying the name like it was a deluxe dish that could possibly be served with a side of hummus.

“Are you doing a nativity play at nursery?” I asked with a grin.

“Yes. I’m Mary,” Nora said proudly.

I was not sure about how I felt having our three year old experiencing a virgin birth.

“Are you Mary?” Alastair asked her, looking at her in the rearview mirror.

“Yes! I Mary!” she said with a grin. Blimey. Our three year old baby with a baby of her own. The Daily Mail would have a field day.

“Nick?” I asked our quiet boy who was busily looking out the window.

“Yes?” he replied, looking at me.

“Are you in the nativity play?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, his blue eyes big and shiny.

“What are you, sweetheart? Are you Joseph?” That wouldn’t be weird. Our two children married to each other and giving birth to a prophet. “Are you a king?”

“No. I’m going to be a monster,” he replied.

We bite back laughter. “Really? A monster? That’s wonderful, honey!”

Must be a modern version of the bible. It’s been updated since I read it, apparently. I confess that we’re not religious and I couldn’t tell you my Leviticus from my Ecclesiastes, but I don’t recall monsters being involved. Maybe it’s been updated with a Stephen King element to attract the younger audiences, possibly there’s even a new section where Harry Potter and Edward Cullen battle it out (my money’s on Harry).

Turns out that the twins are both shepherds in the play which will be presented mid-December, which I think is lovely and thus endeth the angst over their portrayal as potential Biblical leads, particularly since I have no doubt they’d wrestle over the baby Jesus. The nursery sent round a note that we should make our costumes, but as Alastair is basically running the house and the twins’ mum is a woman who not only is completely incompetent when it comes to crafts, but whose wrist has now degraded so badly that her husband has to cut her food for her like a child, we went the modern route and I’ve bought the costumes, which should arrive shortly.

I have two shepherds, not a Mary and a monster.

At least on a good day, anyway.

And in a matter of days, the first Santa post gets wheeled out.

I love Christmas.

-S.