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不論我最終跟她講些什么，我希望至少我能讓我的女兒感覺到圣誕是一段特殊的日子，一段她會日夜期盼、帶著興奮與想像翹首以待的日子。
Deck the Halls With Fibs & Folly
“So anyway，is Santa real or fake？”the smallest person in the house demanded of me last week．“Why？What have you been told？”I answered suspiciously．
“That he’s just a man dressed up．”
“Well．．．”
“And that’s his beard is fake．”
“Mmmm．．．”
“And that his elves aren’t elves――they’re just little kids that have stopped growing．”
“No，I don’t think that’s right，”I said．
“So what’s the story，Mum？”
Well，what’s the story indeed？Is the story that I will inevitably1) continue my own parents‘convincing Santa fable？The one about Santa being a ubiquitous2) frequenter of suburban shopping malls around December，a hoarder of toys and all－seeing judge－and－jury of bad behavior？The one about him sneaking down the chimney we don’t have on Christmas Eve，devouring one or two bikkies and half－a－dozen stubbies before depositing decent gifts for the kids of the house who’s just pulled off an１１th hour bout of exceptional behavior？Is that what I’ll say？
Or will I come clean on this increasingly outdated fabrication3)？Will I save myself from my daughter’s potential scorn when，at the age of nine or ten，she discovers her mother’s pants are very definitely on fire？And if so，will my rather straight－shooting four－year－old daughter be able to contain herself from spilling the beans to those among her little friends whose parents have worked very，very hard to pull the whole lie off without incident？（I seriously doubt it．）Perhaps，then，I’ll invent a new tradition，a quaint and harmless compromise between the myth and the reality of Christmas．
Perhaps it’ll be something about there existing a Christmas“angel，”an invisible being that is really the spirit of the festive4) season；who，through love and kindness and a touch of magic，inspires families to share gifts，fine food，good times and year－long grudges5） about who got drunk and broke the fountain in the front garden．
Whatever my final story，I hope I at least succeed in making Christmas a special time for my daughter，one that she counts down the sleeps to each year and looks upon with excitement and tinsel－tinged6) wonder．I hope she grows up to love Bing Crosby’s White Christmas．I hope she shares my love of living，lop sided Christmas trees obtained via dubious means．I hope she wants to make her own decorations out of Cornflakes packets and mountains of alfoil7)．But most of all，I hope she realizes that Christmas is not about receiving；it’s about giving．
by Carrie Schofield
