I’m a crap tooth fairy, admittedly. Since the post I wrote about being a crap tooth fairy I have failed twice more. So, it should probably come as no surprise that the daydream believers in the House of Driver are becoming suspicious.
It all came to a head on Sunday night when I was tucking the 8 year old into bed and she asked me outright “Are you Santa?”
My palms went clammy and I started giggling nervously. Then I launched into a long, drawn out explanation about how if I was Santa then I would have to move to the North Pole for December. As a grand finale I waffled on about sleighs, elves and International deliveries “And how would I fit all that in around all that stuff I do around here” I sighed.
She raised her eyebrows. “Plus, it’s not like I have a big white beard is it?” I said catching sight of myself in the mirror above her bed and wondering if the long white whisker , that appears from nowhere, was back on my chin.
It seems that she believed me, or was suffering from intense confusion, because she snuggled down and went to sleep.
Since then I’ve felt nervous … every time she says “Mummy?” I crap my pants. I think she’s trying to break me, she’s toying with me. She’s going to unearth my secret stash of gifts.
Or she’ll come hurtling down the stairs, on Christmas Eve, just as I’m chomping on the carrot we’ve left Rudolph, chewing the end of it and spraying it over the garden path … like my Dad used to do. “Och, look wee Laura!” my Dad would say … he’s Scottish … “Rudolph munched on that carrot you left him” as he showed me the carrot leftovers scattered in the garden. I believed him.
I’m sticking to one line and one line only. According to my sister it’s the line my mother also stuck to … “Those who believe get a bit more special magic”
I STILL BELIEVE*
*said with a slightly nervous, borderline manic look on my face.