I am a bad mummy

I am a bad mummy. I must be. So many people are telling me I am. My brother called me daft, a friend asked why I was ruining things for my kids, others just think I'm a nutter.

What have I done that's so horrible? So disgusting and wrong???

I've told my kids that Santa is a great story that heaps of people like to pretend is real, but it really isn't true. Santa doesn't magically leave presents under the tree, Mummy and Daddy do. It's something Matt and I have dscussed and something we felt was the right thing to do.

I guess it's unforgiveable. We are ruining their Christmasses for the rest of their lives. We are taking away the magic of their childhoods. We are scarring them for life and segregating them from all other people in the human race. Or at least that's the impression I'm getting from everyone else!

Why do we feel the need to out-an-out LIE to our children to create a magical and imaginative world for them to live in? Kids are amazing creatures. They can watch movies and be taken to fantastical worlds, read book and be transported to out-of-this-world wonderous lands. They play with a brown box that can amazingly become a car, a rocket ship, a boat, a house, a cave, or whatever else they want. But when it comes to Santa, we can't trust our kids to take it as an amazingly wonderful story about the giving spirit behind Christmas? Why do we have to tell our kids that Santa is alive and well today and lives in the North Pole and has magical elves and reindeer and delivers presents personally to each and every child? Why do our news programmes feel the need to perpetuate this downright lie by giving updates on "Santa" and even little graphics on where he is by using the modern technology of GPS? Why can we not trust our kids to create some magic themselves, and instead foist it on them in the form of our own ideas?

Elizabeth isn't missing out on anything. She gets to lie under the Christmas tree and count all the twinkling lights with me. Tonight or tomorrow night we're going to pop some popcorn and drive around looking at Christmas lights and ooohhhh and aaahhh. She's getting a chocolate every day from the Advent calendar as we count down the days. She has heaps of presents under the Christmas tree all waiting for her to unwrap (she claims there are 10 - that's a big number for her). She'll celebrate on Christmas Day with a whole pile of loving people and plenty of good food.

Phillip doesn't seem to be missing out on anything magical either. He screams with excitement at every single Christmas decoration he sees (if it has flashing lights that deserves an even bigger yell). He's overjoyed every time he comes down the stairs to see our Christmas tree (despite the original fear because he shattered a glass bauble). I can just imagine the noise tonight or tomorrow as we search for lights! I might bring some ear plugs. He's gobbled down each Advent chocolate as I give them to him. And he's sure to gorge himself silly on Christmas Day!

Why on earth do we have to lie to them about a big fat man in a red suit to make it magical???

And why am I classified as a bad mother and a killjoy because we have chosen this way, and why do I have to keep justifying our choice to every friend, brother, shop assistant, and meddler around?