I suspect that some of you may have found yourselves accidentally seduced into reading this post solely on the temptations of the rather suggestive title . . .  Tut, Tut. How naughty you are ;-) But just to clarify . . . Who dear? Me dear? Explicit dear? No dear! What kinda gal do you take me for? ;-) 

Seriously, my apologies if I’ve lured you in under false hopes, But you see, I really couldn’t think of a more appropriate title for what I am about to disclose...

 So please do take heed and only read on if you are a fully fledged member of Adulthood. For this post could shatter dreams and cause heartache everywhere if it were to fall upon the eyes of the innocent. And I seriously don’t want to be responsible for that.

I am already carrying the increasing weight of a ton of guilt. And each and every time I look into those big blue eyes of hers another ounce is added to the load. She wants to talk about it all the time now that Christmas is fast approaching. And I feel awful for keeping up the pretence of an entire tale of complete fabrication. 

Honestly I don’t know how I can sleep at night.

It’s been seven years already. Once a year, as the day draws closer I find myself obliged to tell lie after lie after lie. And as my Nan says, ‘what a web we do weave, when at first we choose to deceive.’ 

The web of lies surrounding this time of year, or one specific night to be exact, is becoming more and more tangled. And I wonder how I’ll ever be able to get myself out of it when the time comes. The dreaded time when I am expected to confirm the suspicions of a child, growing more and more cynical with age. When she asks me outright and I have to confess that (A.) He isn’t real. And (B.) Her Mummy is a liar.

You see, I know all parents are expected to say stuff like this, but she really is a bright little girl. She’s intelligent beyond her years and for this reason alone she has earnt my respect. I don’t like to lie to her. I like to answer her questions with honesty. And so my Lorelei looks to her Mummy for guidance. For facts. For love and comfort. And for the truth.

And I wonder whether she’ll ever be able to trust me again when the truth comes out?

It broke my heart the day that I discovered the truth behind the web of lies woven by the adults around me when I was a kid. I remember it distinctly. 

 Mum was in the tub. I sat with her on the toilet seat, as I always did, swinging my legs and chatting away happily. It was the beginning of December and my 8th Christmas was fast approaching. 

 I’d heard the rumours already. From the more sophisticated and worldy members of my class at school.  But I didn’t want to believe them. In fact I concluded that they would be the unlucky kids, crossed off the list for disbelief and punished with empty stockings and uneaten mince pies. But just to be really sure, I went to the one person I knew I could trust to tell me straight. And so slowly I sought the truth. With my heart pumping and a heavy weight in my tummy. 

‘Mummy, is it true that Father Christmas isn’t real?’ I spoke.

And several slow moments later my response came in the form of a guilt-ridden nod.

 At that point in time I found myself forced to question all the characters in my life that I had never seen but always believed to be there. The Easter Bunny. Jack Frost. The Tooth Fairy...  And one-by-one those characters that I’d based my foundations and life philosophy upon faded into oblivion. 

I am all too aware that one day my children are going to know that their Mummy was actually the bearer of a lot of bullshit over the years. And I hope they can forgive me.

 Yesterday Jay and I took the kids to ‘Gullivers’ theme park in Milton Keynes. We had a fabulous time, the park was great. Although I am thinking that perhaps ‘Gullible’s’ might be a more appropriate name.  For tearing around in the cool winter sun was a million little gullibles, completely oblivious to the fact that they are so obviously being mugged off by their own ‘rents.

 We ate doughnuts, (the kind that cannot be recreated by ever the best bakers, the kind that you can only get from fairs and stuff.) We drank Hot Chocolate. We watched shows. Rode on carousals. Sang Christmas carols underneath the softly falling (pretend) snow and walked through a winter wonderland on route to see the big man himself. 

 Lorelei sat next to him, old Saint Nick, and on her best behaviour and displaying her very best manners she politely introduced herself, humbly asked him for the things she so desperately hopes to receive on Christmas morning, (some Zubber, an IPOD touch... ) wished him a Merry Christmas and waved goodbye, explaining her hopes to meet with him again on Christmas Eve.

Oh the way her little face lit up when she saw him! I doubt I’ll ever be able to confess now.

 You see the thing is I actually find myself going out of my way to keep up the whole pretense. It is not enough for my children to merely believe, oh no, I have to go the whole hog to prove he’s real. He eats the mince pies and drinks the beer, for example. Sometimes he even leaves muddy boot prints on the carpet. And Rudolph munches the carrot we leave for him too. 

 He emails, he writes, he sends cards, last week he Skyped us, (yep, that's how Saint Nick rolls these days...) and, whilst he never brings the expensive larger gifts our children receive, (Obviously can’t let him take all the credit!)   he always fills their stockings with delights come Christmas morn. 

 Ah well, I suppose there are some lies, in life that are worth telling? And anyway it is only a little white (and red) lie...

 It's a lie that feeds the imaginations, a lie that warms the hearts, of millions of children worldwide. 

So at the expense of being a Billy bullshitter it is a lie I shall continue to spout, in order to create magical childhood memories for my little cherubs. 

Because for all the lies told, the stories made-up, the ‘ooohing,' the ‘ahhing’ and the ‘look who’s been?!’ It’s totally worth it just for the precious expression of amazement on their faces when they rise before the sun on Christmas Morn.