I noted with engaged interest the Christmas babies we had in the Falkirk area this year, for I too have one.
She is nine now and is the most precious thing in the world to me and every Christmas is extra special because of her.
Before Louisa, Christmas wasn’t that big a deal for me and was just one of the better days on the calendar. But with her birthday it’s become something that brings me immense happiness and I’m not a humbug anymore – some people may contest this last statement though.
When she was born I learned the true meaning of the phrase ‘pride and joy’, even though she looked like a giant frog when she was dangled in front of me moments after being born.
I remember listening to Christmas songs on the radio in the wee sma’ hours in the maternity ward that year. Her mum genuinely thought it was a piano player in the corner due to the amount of gas and air she was consuming.
As she gets older she gets more and more hyper – no Skittles required – as Christmas approaches.
On Christmas Eve she was literally jumping with joy as we sprinkled reindeer dust over the garden path and went totally OTT with Santa’s food, leaving out a jam sandwich, two mince pies, a can of beer, milk for Rudolph, a packet of crisps and a few other things that would have burst his belt.
But she’s getting to that age now. The Saturday after Christmas she asked me if Santa was real. “What do you think?” I asked her. To my delight she said yes so I wholeheartedly concurred. God knows what I would have said otherwise.
As far as Christmas presents go I can safely say I’ll never get a better one. Unless, of course, I get another Christmas baby.
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