I hear the question and at once pull the blanket tighter around myself.

‘Mummy, who is the Holy Spirit?’

There’s nothing for a second. And then.

‘Ask daddy. Daddy will be able to explain it better than me.’

I lie still, hoping it will pass. But soon I’m being roughly shaken and I’m forced to sit up.

‘Daddy….daddy, who is the Holy Spirit?’

I’m rubbing my eyes, scratching my head and trying to stall for time. Usually I like a smoother passage into the day than this.

‘The Holy Spirit? Where did you hear about that buddy?’

The teacher told us in school. What does it mean daddy?’

I look pleadingly towards mummy but she’s facing the far wall with the blanket pulled to her ears. I’m sure I can see a small tremble in her shoulders which I think might be an attempt to smother laughter.

‘Well….uh…..the Holy Spirit…..it’s um….sort of a type of a spirit, I suppose.’

His little eyes are fixed on me. He’s not to be bought off by such a paltry answer. I delve deep into my memory, from a time almost four decades ago when this particular concept last troubled my thoughts. I’m not sure I understood it then, I’m sure I don’t now. His eyes haven’t moved. I try again.

‘Well, you see, some people believe different things about the origins of the world. Some people believe in a god, and some of those believe in a god which is divided into three. There is God the father, who you’ve been told about in school. Some people think he lives in heaven.’

‘God’s house in the sky near the sun daddy?’

‘Uh, yeah, I suppose so. And then there’s God the son, who some people believe is Jesus, who came down to earth.’

‘And has his birthday at Christmas?’

‘Well yes. Then the third part of God, some people believe, is the Holy Spirit.’

‘And what’s he like daddy?’

‘Hmmmm, well, it’s hard to be sure. Those who believe in the Holy Spirit think he’s like a presence, something which is everywhere and in everything we do.’

My son stares at me without comprehension. I’m beginning to regret starting this. I go on.

‘Sometimes the Holy Spirit has been depicted as a flame….or as a dove, which is a sort of bird.’

‘A bird which is on fire daddy?’

‘Yes, well, I think that’s just for illustrative purposes. I think the point is it’s supposed to be a feeling, rather than a thing. God’s presence on earth. When I was a kid we called it the Holy Ghost.’

‘He’s a ghost daddy? Like the ghosts in Muppet Christmas Carol?’

Again I look around for help, but none is coming. I’m well out of my comfort zone.

‘Well…not exactly like that. As I said, this is just what some people believe in. Other people have different ideas. The only truth is that nobody really knows.’

He stares at me hard for a second, almost as if he’s considering whether he should prolong my torture. Then….

‘Daddy, can I play on your phone?’

I quickly hand the mobile over, happy to be spared further interrogation. Soon he’s happily playing a game and humming along to a tune of his own making and I go downstairs to make breakfast. As I spread butter on toast I’m troubled by thoughts that I didn’t handle the encounter very well. That I made my son a lot more confused than he was before.

I know what my instinct wanted me to say. As a longtime and committed atheist I wanted to say that religion is a load of manmade superstitious nonsense and that the idea of the Holy Spirit is on the very far edge of the whacky scale. Leave no room for doubt.

But I didn’t do that. Partly because I don’t want to directly contradict something he has been told in the school classroom. While I’m far from convinced of the merit of introducing a five-year-old to an idea as woolly and opaque as the Holy Spirit, I’m more concerned about the disturb that might be caused by having him thinking his teacher and father are pulling in different directions.

But the bigger reason why I didn’t dismiss the Holy Spirit as obvious hoodoo is that, even though I’m his father, I’m not sure it’s my place to do so. He has the right, like every child, to make that decision himself.

While I’ve always been dubious about the wisdom of inculcating children in any narrow form of religion as an inalienable truth, it would surely be just as arrogant of me to simply expect him to share my humanist views.

Which is why I try to tell him everything, and about everything. And why, on occasions such as this morning, I get myself into a holy mess by bending over backwards to give all sides of the story and to be fair to everybody. Even when I believe the concept to be nonsense.

I’ve little doubt that my bumbling words this morning made no impression on his formative mind. But, as he gets older, more ideas will be introduced and more concepts will stick. His mind will learn how to reason, to make decisions based on evidence and to think critically. And he will learn about lots of religions, and science, literature and history.

And then at some point, when he’s ready, he will pick his own path. He may follow his father as an irreligionist. Or he may decide to follow a faith, after all there are certainly plenty to choose from. And that will be just fine.

Between then and now there will undoubtedly be many, many more questions. And more faltering, stuttering attempts at explanation. It’s all part of the journey of self discovery. For him and me.

The vapidity of these days is, I suppose, to be expected.

Christmas is over. Done. We’re in that strange in-between time. School and work have yet to recommence and the days pass now with none of the intoxication of before. I feel trapped in their dreary emptiness while simultaneously dreading the crushing, imminent return to grey normality.

It’s always like this in the early part of January. After the interminable build-up Christmas passes as fast and slippery as a young fish and all that is left is some familiar sense of desperate regret over the inexorable, grinding progression of the clock.

Those who are attuned to the fragility of a healthy mental state will know of the danger of the dark, January days. In December the bleakness of the cold, red morning horizon is filled with enchantment. In January it can reek of hopelessness.

Perhaps this is because the defences have been temporarily lowered, the mind and body surrendered to a state of abandon. Perhaps it is simply because endings are easier than beginnings. Whatever, the worries and responsibilities seep back into my thoughts, spreading like mould.

The new toys are still scattered on the carpet of the good room. The Christmas tree is there in the corner. I haven’t found the will to take it down but have no desire to see the lights. That’s where I am, stranded, unable to summon the energy to do anything new even though I am tired of what has gone before.

As I said, it’s a dangerous time and I know the trick is to bring focus and order to the mind. To give myself a task. To bring some mystical, awful importance to what would otherwise be inane. Don’t let the sense of rot set in.

Today it is the bins. The glorious comforting dependable routine of the bins. Sorting the surplus of rubbish into piles for the green, brown and blue receptacles. I’m tearing cardboard boxes to pieces and crushing cans and plastic bottles as I challenge myself to fit more and more in.

I find myself slipping into a familiar obsessive state as I go through every individual piece of waste, making sure it is in the right bin. Soon I’m removing labels from plastic containers and washing them, taking time to ensure that every small particle of food is removed from the most elusive corners. I think I may even be smiling as I consider that basically what I’m doing is washing my rubbish.

It’s just my son with me in the house today, mummy has already returned to work. We play superhero games which consist of me chasing him around the house only to be bashed on the head with a pillow when I catch him. It seems to go on for a long time. In truth the game feels a little bit flat and I wonder is it possible that even children can grow tired of having too much empty time. 

Then he wants to watch a film so I leave him in the front room while I go upstairs. I try to read but find I cannot concentrate on the words. I’d love to write something but I know that it’s when I struggle to reach a creative state that I’m least likely to find it.

So instead I just lie on the bed, wandering somewhere deep inside my own mind. I know I’m not depressed or anxious, I’m just concentrating on being self-aware. Trying, as ever, to understand all of the layers and processes. I can’t stop thinking about how thin the lines are.

Then I hear him coming up the stairs. My first emotion, I’m ashamed to say, is one of weariness. I’m anticipating another long bout of superhero role playing. ‘Aw, buddy, just let daddy have five more minutes.’

But when he enters the room his face is flushed and serious, like a child trying to replicate an adult expression. I sit up immediately as he begins to speak.

‘Daddy, there’s something I have to tell you. Something I need you to check.’

‘What is it buddy? Are you alright?’

His face is creased with the effort of processing new thoughts and experiences.

‘Daddy, I think I might have a wobbly tooth.’

He wants me to look in his mouth. Eventually I manage to persuade him that he needs to remove his finger and move his tongue and then I see it. A tiny pearl tooth in the bottom row which is dangling by a thread. It must have been loose for some time but he has only just realised what is happening.

‘Yes buddy, you definitely have a wobbly tooth. That’s going to fall out soon.’

And then it begins. The pleasure overtakes his tiny body and he begins to bounce, as he always does when excited.

‘I can’t believe it daddy. I can’t believe I have my first wobbly tooth.’

He talks like this with animation for some time. He begins to tell me about every person in his class at school, naming them individually as he recites how many wobbly or missing teeth they have. A complete juvenile dental record of all of his friends. He has never spoken to me of this subject before but now I’m aware of how it must have dominated his thoughts and discussion in the playground. How often he must have wondered when it was going to be his turn. Children’s minds, just like those of adults, are full of suppressed mysteries and surprises.

We talk of the tooth fairy and I find his joy and wonder spreading into me like a contagion. It’s only a tooth but it means so much more to him. He seems to be more excited in this moment than he was at any time over Christmas. Perhaps more excited than I’ve ever seen him before.

He keeps repeating a couple of lines over and over.

‘I can’t believe I’ve got a wobbly tooth. I’m a big boy now.’

Perhaps there should be some pathos in this process, as my boy takes another step towards growing up, another step away from me, but I can’t help but be carried along with his excitement and pure, undiluted joy.

He is desperate to tell mummy. In his world no experience is complete unless it is shared entirely with his mother. I tell him I’ll get her on the phone but he wants to wait. To tell her in person, to do it properly and with due ceremony.

So we wait and play more games, but now the elusive animation and adventure has returned. Occasionally he stops just to give me one of his smiles and I’m aware of how the romantic has swept away the cerebral and how much better I am for it.

Eventually mummy comes home. I have to bring her into the front room and ask her to sit down so my son can make his announcement. There are tears and hugs.

Mummy puts him to bed but it is some time before he is calm enough to sleep. Later she tells me that he kept repeating the same two lines as he lay, over and over, in a whisper.

‘I can’t believe I’ve got a wobbly tooth, I’m a big boy now. I can’t believe I’ve got a wobbly tooth, I’m a big boy now….’

There is momentary panic the next morning. The tooth is gone, leaving only a dark gap at the bottom of his mouth. Soon mummy finds it on the mattress. She holds it in the palm of her hand and we stare, astonished by how small and white it is. Like a delicate jewel or even a tiny, distant star.

Tiny and white, but able to illuminate the depth of night and to brighten the darkest of days.

We’ve been stuck in the house all morning. All three of us swamped by the cold, a seemingly never-ending alternation between being bunged up and dribbling.

Too much time cooped up together inevitably leads to irritation and tantrums so mummy and I decide we have to get the wee man outside.

It’s a bleak midwinter day. We load the car and head towards the city. The long lines of Christmas shopper traffic dissuades us from the retail centre so instead we skirt around the edges.

We find ourselves in the east and mummy suggests a visit CS to Lewis Square. This is a good idea because my boy has recently been reading The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe and it’s nice to be able to tell him that there’s a local origin to that word of magic.

The square is deserted, save for a youth doing tricks on a bike and two others who may, or may not, have ingested illegal substances.

My son enjoys touring the statues and murals, putting images to the concepts that have only existed in his head until now. He’s dazzled by the size and majesty of the Aslan sculpture.

We’re happy to let him wander round and explore, but have to gently guide him away when one of the youths begins to relieve himself against a tree.

The days are short in December but there’s still a little daylight left so we head off in search of more adventure. This time I come up with the idea. Let’s go to the play park in the Stormont estate. We’ve never been to this facility before but lots of parents have enthusiastically spoken of its virtues.

But when we reach the site we find only a building site, piles of mud and diggers. The park is undergoing major refurbishment and is closed for months.

We walk around the estate for a while but it feels like the engine has run out of steam and soon we head for home.

Back in the car a running joke soon develops, instigated by my boy.

‘Imagine silly daddy bringing us to a play park which isn’t even open!’

I’m happy to go along with it. After all, that’s my allocated parental role. The good natured, bumbling oaf of a daddy who tries hard but gets it wrong most of the time. When we play Home Alone I’m always given the role of the dopey robber and find myself tripping and falling all over the house while my clever and devious son escapes my clutches.

And that’s just fine.

On the way home we stop at the motorway service station. My boy is always a picky eater but his cold has escalated this trait. A sausage roll is one of the few things I can think of that he’s likely to eat without complaint.

We sit in the dining area, wiping crumbs off the table as he nibbles a giant sausage roll and mummy and I sip tepid coffees.

But the respite is short. Soon he’s bored again and looking for more fun. My coffee is rancid anyway so I rise to the challenge and lead him away to the play area.

There’s a mechanised superhero ride, the sort you put a pound in and then watch it go round slowly. I suggest my boy might like a go.

But when I lift him in he’s almost too big too fit in the car. Then he’s embarrassed by how slowly the  car moves. It’s clearly designed for a much smaller child.

Silly daddy has got it wrong again. Forgetting that his son is growing and developing every day, and what worked once now just seems infantile and feeble.

Then we spot the claw machine in the corner. He’s immediately drawn to the bright colours and flashing lights. He circles the glass case and then spots a Minecraft teddy attached to a ten pound note. He’s been playing a lot of Minecraft recently.

‘Daddy, let’s get the Minecraft teddy!’

I immediately try to lessen his hopes. Of course we’ll have a go but these machines are designed so you never win, I tell him. You can’t beat the machine. The parental lesson, I’ve already decided, is that you can’t always get everything that you want.

A pound gives you three goes and I slip a couple of coins into the machine. There’s one button which moves the grabbing claw backwards and one which moves it to the side.

We both have a few goes. On a couple of occasions I get close, grabbing the teddy and lifting it slightly before it falls again, like a bird that’s been shot out of the sky.

I tell him again that this is how the machine is designed, so it tempts you into thinking you’ve got a chance. You can’t beat the machine.

Then he has another idea.

‘Get mummy! Mummy will be able to get the Minecraft teddy!’

And so mummy is summoned from her cup of tea. But, by the time we get back to the machine, a young girl is playing. We watch her for a few minutes, inserting coin after coin, lifting the brightly coloured teddies only for them to drop again.

Soon she gives up and gives me a little resigned shrug as she walks away. She understands now that you can’t beat the machine. It’s part of growing up.

Then mummy has a go, but fares no better. She’s in the process of telling our son that the teddies never come out when I decide to have one last go. I put in the last pound coin in my wallet.

On the first two attempts I get close, lifting the Minecraft teddy and bringing yelps of excitement from my son, before it inevitably falls back into the mess of cuddly toys and notes, leaving him deflated.

There’s nothing perceptibly different about my last go. I do exactly the same as before, positioning the claw above the brown teddy and then hitting the button.

Again the teddy is hauled into the air. But this time it’s different. Perhaps there’s just a little bit of Christmas magic in the air because this time the claw holds fast. The dangling teddy is moved across the surface before being dropped into a hole from where it can be retrieved.

My son jumps up and down, mummy does a little dance, I punch the air. At my age I really should know better. Then my boy gives me a really big cuddle.

He grasps his new toy close and casually casts the ten pound note aside. In truth it may be the ugliest teddy I’ve ever seen but that doesn’t seem important now.

As we drive home our conversation is animated and, just for a little while, the day doesn’t seem quite so bleak and our colds don’t seem quite so debilitating.

Even at my age I can still learn new things. Sometimes you can beat the machine. And sometimes, just sometimes, silly old daddy isn’t quite so silly after all.

Merry Christmas everyone xxxx

I’ll begin with an embarrassing confession; something I usually don’t tell other adults.

It relates to revealing my favourite film. While I love much of Scorsese’s and Tarantino’s work, neither has produced a movie that I know so well that each line of dialogue is as familiar as the expressions on my son’s face.

Instead the picture which has a permanent presence within my psyche is the Muppet Christmas Carol, a loose adaptation of the classic old fable. The basic premise is the same, but with Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy and The Great Gonzo added in.

I can’t even really make the excuse that it’s a film that I’ve carried with me since childhood as a precious memory. The Muppet Christmas Carol was released in 1992, by which time I was already eighteen and should really have known better.

The best explanation I can offer is that the film combines two of my great loves – Dickens’ Christmas morality tale and the Muppets, whose comedy I think I appreciate better as an adult than I ever did as a youth.

Add in a moving performance from Michael Caine as Ebeneezer Scrooge and a soundtrack full of catchy tunes and it is close to being the perfect festive film.

And one that I’ve watched countless times without ever feeling that my day would be better spent doing more productive things.

Naturally, as a considerate father, I wanted to pass on the joys of this family film to my young son (as well as giving me good cover to watch it again).

But, for the last few years, he has remained stubbornly resistant to its charms. All of my attempts at luring him into a viewing have been met with apathy and a request to put Ryan’s Toy Review on instead.

Two years ago I even booked the family into a special Christmas screening in a cinema only for my wee man to defiantly refuse to enter the theatre, preferring to sit in the foyer eating popcorn and playing with my phone.

But this year, finally, a breakthrough.

After playing him one of the songs and explaining the plot, my son agreed to watch. I have the movie downloaded on my laptop and we cuddled up together as he got his first experience of the three Christmas ghosts.

It’s fair to say that he was quickly hooked.

A couple of hours later he asked to watch it again.

So we did.

And then in the evening he asked to watch it again.

So we did.

And then the following morning he awoke me in bed shortly after 5am, shaking me roughly by the shoulder.

‘Daddy, daddy, put it on.’

‘Uhhhhhh?

‘Daddy, put it on?’

‘Put what on? What bloody time is it?’

‘Put the Muppet film on daddy. Let’s watch it.’

So we did.

Later in the day we had to undertake a car journey, which always raises the challenge of keeping an active five-year-old occupied and amused.

I asked my son if he wanted a story.

‘Tell me the Muppet story daddy.’

So I began to give a rough sketch of the plot. But he quickly stopped me.

‘No daddy, do it properly, right from the start.’

And so the next hour passed with me trying to give a detailed recital of the full script of the Muppet Christmas Carol, complete with the full array of character voices and tuneless performances of all the songs – One More Sleep Till Christmas, Marley and Marley, It Feels Like Christmas, When Love Is Gone and Thankful Heart.

At the points when I couldn’t remember the correct lyrics I had to extemporise with my own substitutions.

Soon it became apparent that my wee man, with his spongelike adolescent brain, now knows the film better than I do, as he corrected me several times when I skipped scenes or forgot lines of dialogue. Over and over he kept telling me to do it again until I got it right.

The phrase which came to my mind as I considered his years of previous indifference to the film was….be careful what you wish for.

Now I’ve been forced to ask myself whether, like the festive reveller who has over-indulged on turkey and sherry, I’ve finally had more than my fill of the Muppet Christmas Carol?

After all, how many times can I reasonably be expected to laugh when my son runs up and yells: ‘Daddy! It’s Old Fozziwig’s rubber chicken factory!’ into my ear?

But while there may be a feeling of overexposure at this moment, I know that the next time my son cuddles up beside me and asks me to put the Muppets on, I will readily comply.

The truth is I’m delighted that he’s grown to love something that has been such a favourite of mine over the years. It gives me a little opening into his world, something that is inclusive, something that we can do together. It’s that level of contact which I’m always searching for as a parent. The feeling that we’re in it together.

If he wants to watch the film six times a day then that’s just grand.

In the spirit of true Christmas excess, I can always make room for a bit more.

Many things in the world seemed much simpler when I was a young child.

Christmas, for example, brought predictable delights. I knew that I would get one new toy. I knew it was the only time of the year when there would be good films on the telly. I knew there would be sweets and chocolates in the house. And I knew what I was letting myself in for when I went to see Santa.

The Santa’s grotto was a concept which began in American department stores before spreading across the Atlantic to London, then Belfast and eventually to the remote countryside where I grew up.

I have sketchy memories of my parents driving me and my brothers to the Tower Centre in Ballymena to see Santa Claus. And of being alarmed when he spoke to me in a thick Ulster Scots brogue.

But, the point is, the process was simple. You went to a shopping centre, you waited in a long queue, you were taken in to see a man wearing an ill-fitting white beard, you got a Polaroid photograph and a cheap plastic gift and then you went home again.

But, at some point between me being a kid and becoming a daddy, the simple has become complicated; what was once clear is now cloudy. People have decided that to get an edge they just have to try a lot harder.

This elaboration is best explained through some of the complicated things I’ve witnessed over the past few years at various Santa’s grottos.

I’ve seen Santa abseiling down a wall. I’ve seen Santa climbing down a custom-made chimney to make a grand entrance. I’ve seen live reindeers and working model villages. I’ve been at a Santa experience which began with a ride on a train and ended with a ride on a rollercoaster. I’ve been to another where Santa was on the train. I’ve seen winter wonderlands, ice rinks, arts and crafts, market stalls, snow slides and carousels. They are always described as a magical experience.

Some of it has worked. Some of it has not. A lot of it is based around what grown-ups think kids will like.

I don’t know, but I suspect when he’s older the only part my boy will remember will be the precious couple of moments he spent on Santa’s knee. The rest will melt away as quickly as a Christmas snowfall.

There’s a large group of us, parents and children. A woman dressed as an elf ushers us through an area which has been decorated like a Victorian shop. She tells us this is The Old Curiosity Shop. I’m minded to say that I think she’s read the wrong Dickens book, but I don’t like to draw attention to myself.

Then we’re led to a larger room, which, we are informed, is Santa’s Workshop. The brochure describes this as a ‘magical experience’. Of course.

This room has several more young women dressed as elves. None of them are elfin but they are cheerful and ready to entertain the children.

There are numerous games and craft activities here and the children are guided towards them. One large elf thrusts a sheet of paper into my hand. She tells me that letters have been hidden around the room and we have to find them to reveal the word. No reward or lure is offered as to why I might want to do this, but I’m keen not to appear contrary so quietly concur.

Mummy, my son and I spend a few minutes searching for the letters. Soon it is clear that the mystery word is RUDOLPH. But, on the paper, the spaces for the R and the U have been inserted in the wrong order and the L seems to have fallen off the wall. So what I’m left with is URDO_PH. I fold the sheet of paper and put it in my pocket.

The process is this. Every few minutes a bell rings and an elf with a microphone reads out the name of a child who is invited to see if he/she is on the naughty or nice list before they are taken into a sealed area to see Santa before emerging soon after clutching a toy and a photo.

Now, for the first time, I begin to consider the logistics of this. There are a lot of children here and they can only be processed one at a time. I have a passing thought about how long this will all take but quickly push it from my mind.

We play with the games and look up expectantly every time the bell rings. We have fun playing Jenga and Connect Four. Then we design some Christmas cards. Then we use little beads to make replica candy canes. Then we write a letter to Santa. Then we come up with a Christmas wish to hang onto the tree. 

All the while the bell keeps ringing and we keep looking up. But it’s never my son’s name which is called.

There is a large illuminated clock attached to the far wall which is supposed to show how many sleeps are left until Christmas. But it has broken down and an engineer with a tool kit is working at the large hands.

We’ve been here now for more than an hour and have exhausted all the games provided so my son has begun to invent his own diversions which involve me chasing him around an over-sized toadstool.

The large crowd has now thinned as children and parents leave when they finish with Santa. We fall into sympathetic conversation with another couple, comparing stories of how long we’ve been waiting. I show the mother the eight candy canes my son has assembled, but she tops this by producing the thirty-six Christmas cards her daughter has designed while they’ve waited.

The bell rings several more times and we always look up. But it is never my son’s name which is called. My wife and I keep glancing at each other and whispering ‘We can’t be last, can we?’

By now there are almost no children left. Santa’s Workshop, when full of children and elves is fun and festive. Santa’s Workshop, when empty….well it’s just a bit creepy.

Eventually a young woman dressed in period costume takes pity on us. She tells us she is Mrs Claus and wants to read us a story. We gather around her rocking chair and she recites a yarn about a naughty elf.

Then the story is over. We sit on the floor gazing at her expectantly. She produces a basket which contains, we are told, some of Rudolph’s fur. I’m a little disturbed by the revelation but let it go. Then Mrs Claus shows us a jar containing North Pole snow. She searches around at her feet for other trinkets.

We sit on the floor gazing at her expectantly. The bell rings. We look up. Mrs Claus looks up. It is not my son’s name. Mrs Claus meets my eye and I think I see a pleading in her expression. I shrug my shoulders.

Then, suddenly, Mrs Claus stands up and announces that she has to go. I watch her walk to the other side of the room.

Now there are just two families left in the workshop, us and one other. If the huge clock on the wall was working it would reveal that we’ve now been waiting for two hours. An elf is vacuuming fake snow off the carpet.

The bell rings. It is not my son’s name which is announced. The other family scamper towards Santa and we’re left on our own.

My son, who has been patient, stoic and wonderful throughout, suggests one last chasing game and I pursue him around a Christmas tree. While I’m doing this I notice one of the elves approach my wife and ask her my son’s name. It emerges he hasn’t been put on their naughty or nice list. An administrative oversight means he’s not on any bloody list at all.

The elves rectify the mistake and the next time the bell rings my son’s name is called out.

He’s beside me and I see a little tremble run through his body when he hears his name, like he’s been struck by a tiny electric shock.

We approach the grotto and an elf looks for his name on the nice list. It’s right there. The ink is still wet.

Then they tell him to make a wish and close his eyes. As he does this we’re sprayed by fake snow which smells like screenwash.

Then we’re brought behind a curtain into a darker room where Santa sits on his throne. I’m thinking that this older man has seen countless children today, and this is his last appointment before he cracks open a bottle of Scotch. But despite the repetition of the process Santa is kind, compassionate and patient. He also has a real beard and doesn’t speak with an Ulster Scots brogue.

He takes time to talk to my son, realising that the boy is shy and a little daunted.

I’m a desperately proud daddy as my wee man finds his voice to tell Santa his name and age and what he wants for Christmas. He even puts on a timid little smile for the photograph.

Then we’re out and he’s proudly clutching a bag containing a gift. All of the elves have lined up in procession to wave him off and I know he feels special.

My boy told Santa he wanted Avengers superhero toys for Christmas. He rips open the bag before we have reached the door and discovers…an Avenger superhero toy inside.

My son looks at mummy and me almost incredulously.

‘But how did Santa know what I wanted, mummy and daddy?’

‘Santa’s magic buddy….Santa’s magic.’

Some things change over the years. Some things stay the same.

We’re late today.

Late in the general sense that we’re always late. Always chasing a version of ourselves in a vain attempt to reach an elusive place where we have space to relax. Like trying to grasp mist in your hand.

But we’re also late in a particular sense. Late because my son and I cuddled together in bed while it was dark and cold outside listening to the songs from the Muppet Christmas Carol when we could have been easing ourselves into the day.

And now there’s not enough time. The wee man has to be prepared for school on time and mummy and I both need to get to work on time. There are the rituals of breakfast, play, washing, play, teeth brushing, play and dressing. And then some play. There’s really not enough time.

But somehow, just like every other morning, we’re on the cusp of making it work, impossibly squaring the circle. I’m ticking the tasks off a mental list while counting down the minutes and thinking that we might just keep mayhem in the box for one more morning. There’s an end in sight.

And then my son speaks.

‘Daddy, where’s my magic wand?’

Yesterday, on his return from school, my son told me that some of his friends had brought homemade cardboard wands to school. He wanted one too. No, he needed one, demanded it.

So, like the considerate parent I try to be, I sat down with him and we created a wand from a leftover cereal box. He was happy with the end result and his part in creating it and went to bed a little happier last night knowing that he would not be left out of some playground game.

And now he has remembered the wand. And wants it.

And now I don’t have a fecking clue where it is.

I do a quick search of the kitchen and living room, moving toys and upending piles of paper. Inexplicably the magic wand cannot be found.

My son is beginning to get agitated and my game offering that ‘It must have been so magic that it has made itself disappear’ is met with a scornful ‘You’ll have to do better than that’ look.

I can see the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

‘Daddy I need the magic wand. I won’t be able to play hideandseekchasiesmagicwizard without it.’

I offer several solutions. I point out that he possesses multiple toy wands. There’s the wand in his magic set, the jangling Ben and Holly wand, the glowing stick we got at the fireworks display, the dragon wand and several others rattling around his many toy boxes.

But it’s no good. It has to be a cardboard wand. It has to match the ones that the other children have.

I promise him that I’ll make him a wand as soon as we get home from school, and that it will be ten times better than the one from before.

But he knows that the game is only relevant today. By Monday the other kids will likely have discarded the idea like an empty crisp packet.

He looks at me.

‘Daddy, can you please make me another wand now?’

I look at the clock. There wasn’t enough time before. Now the box of mayhem is bursting at the sides and the contents spilling onto the floor.

Plus I sense that we’ve reached an important moment. The brain is an astonishing organ which can calculate countless thoughts in mere seconds. Now I’m thinking it’s time to take a stand.

It’s time to teach a lesson that you can’t always have everything that you want. There’s a responsibility to looking after your own possessions. The process of time is linear and has to be respected. You can’t keep forcing the boundaries further and further.

These are the lessons that depriving him of the wand may teach him. Maybe it will be the making of his character. Some day he might even thank me for it.

As I said, it’s an important moment.

He looks at me again. The hurt is evident in his eyes, the desperate pleading for me to make it better. I know, at this instant, for right or wrong, the wand is the most important thing in his life.

Aw crap.

Crap, crap, crap.

‘Right,’ I say briskly. ‘Go up to mummy and get washed and dressed and I’ll do the wand.’

As he climbs the stairs I hear him shout ‘Make sure it’s exactly the same as the one from yesterday daddy.’

Now I’m moving with some urgency. While yesterday I had an empty cereal box, now I’m having to remove contents from containers.

My first attempt is with a Weetabix box but I have to abandon it when I realise that the cardboard inside is dark brown rather than grey and therefore not suitable for colouring. I make a mental note about avoiding Weetabix in the future as I rip the Coco Pops bag from the yellow box.

But I’m too fast and careless and succeed only in scattering little dark rice puffs all over the kitchen floor, so that they crunch under my feet like dead insects. I’ll have to vacuum, but that can wait.

I wrestle with scissors and sketch the shape before decorating with stars, colouring and cutting out. I set the wand before me. In truth it looks naff.

But my son comes down the stairs and inspects it. He is happy and waves it around, casting imaginary spells where I’m turned into a frog. Or, in another instance, into poo.

I put his shoes on the wrong feet. Mummy rights that wrong and then we’re off in the car. As I drop him at the school gates he is happily clutching his wand as he strolls away to meet the challenges of another day.

Though the working hours I think a lot about my capitulation. About my inability to hold the line of discipline. What will the consequences of it be? That’s a question that will be answered on another day.

Later I’m at the school gates again to pick up my son. He looks joyful as he trots towards me. I notice, with some surprise, that he is still clutching the amateurish wand that I made so quickly this morning. I wonder if he’s been holding it all day.

Excitedly he starts to babble about playing hideandseekchasiesmagicwizard. How much fun it was. It becomes clear that my son has had a very good day and that the wand played some part in helping him towards that outcome.

Now, I think, I’m beginning to sense my earlier mistake. Having the wand wasn’t about just gaining another possession, about always wanting more and more and not understanding value or limits.

It was a simple strip of cardboard from a cereal box. It took me five minutes to make but it facilitated some burgeoning playground sense of community and belonging. A feeling of comfort.

It’s the least I could do to help with that.

Sometimes kids spot the important things much quicker than adults.