At almost three, my daughter is finally old enough to understand, and get excited about, Santa. She is really looking forward to Santa sneaking down our chimney on Christmas Eve and leaving her a reindeer. Ok, maybe she doesn’t fully understand it all, but she’s certainly getting there.
With this in mind, when I found out there was a grotto at the forest we visit to buy our Christmas Tree, I thought Ebony might like to tell Santa about the reindeer she wants for Christmas. And, to be honest, I was hoping he might let her know that live animal gifts aren’t really in his remit.
We had planned to arrive early, but, of course, arrived in the middle of the day, and sat in a queue waiting to get into the car park. Once we’d parked up, we made our way to the grotto to discover a frighteningly long line of dead-eyed, weary parents and screaming, miserable children. At this point, I wanted to turn back. I didn’t want to become one of those parents, and I really didn’t want to stand in line with the bored, whining children.
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