It is irrefutable fact. Alfie and Christmas do not mix.
We have had the year Alfie hid under a duvet moaning in the corner because scary wrapped lumps had invaded his house, supposedly delivered by an intruder in a red suit. He was finally tempted out on day two with a plate of jaffa cakes and a bottle of water with glitter in it so we could unwrap his presents, at which point they became acceptable.
We have had the year where the annual Santa photograph shows Mike and Zak standing happily by with gifts, and baby Joe on Santa’s knee. On the floor were Alfie’s legs, the rest of him out of shot as he prostrated himself in protest at having to share grotto space with the red suited intruder.
So this year he has a role in the choir of his first nativity play.
We went to watch. Mistake #1.
We took Joe. Mistake #2.
The only saving grace of school plays is you can break wind and blame small children. If you were sitting on my right, it wasn’t me it was my husband. Even better is that Joe, if asked, will always agree that he has trumped. Gotta love the ickiness of sons.
Alf spotted where we sat. Alf wasn’t happy.
Alf spent the entire play with his head (JUST his head) underneath the chair of the child in front of him. At one point when his rocking got more intense, I left Joe with Daddy and sneaked to the front and whispered to his teacher that I could take him out if it was easier. It turns out he was dancing like that. And tickling his own left foot with a feather.
Joe acted up. Joe really isn’t happy with situations in which he isn’t the centre of attention. Perhaps I should have realised it wouldn’t work when he got in the car after playgloop.
“So what are the other children called Honey?”
“They’re called Joesy”
“No Joe, that’s YOUR name, what are THEIR names”
“They’re called Me”
I am currently trying not to dwell on that conversation. I’m sure Freud would make something of it.