The best thing about Christmas… and it doesn’t last forever

Of course, there’s fun to be had for all ages – even for those of us who are over seven, over 17, or over 70. We’ll shake and prod the parcels, though shaking and prodding has been expressly forbidden, and make outlandish suggestions of what might be inside. “A book,” we’ll say, as we cradle a bottle of wine, and “a bottle of wine”, we’ll say as we cradle a book.

We’ll indulge in our own form of magical thinking – not so much Santa, but rather that the toy will always come with batteries included; that the servo won’t be sold out of ice, though we’ve left it to Christmas morning; that Uncle Trevor will keep his appalling political views to himself.

We may also play backyard cricket and consider ourselves marvellous.

At all stages of life, in other words, Christmas involves the suspension of disbelief. Yet nothing matches the fierce faith of the first flush of Santa. At Maude’s age, Christmas is wonderful in the original and best sense: it’s full of wonder.

And so Maude’s parents, I’m guessing, will lie beside her as she goes to sleep on Christmas Eve, listening for the sound of a sleigh landing on their roof. They’ll have put out biscuits and milk, or maybe a glass of beer, with carrots for the reindeer, and when Maude wakes up, the glass of milk will be half gone – or if it’s beer, entirely gone – and the carrots will feature authentic toothmarks.

Right now, outside the cafe, Maude is concerned we’ve paid insufficient attention to her dress. It is red and covered in white snowflakes – odd, I guess, since we are in the warmish main street of a NSW country town.

She now points to each snowflake in turn, then looks up as if to say: “There is no dress in the world I’d rather be wearing than this one.”

She has an enthusiasm for Santa and Santa’s associated snowflakes. We all know what that’s like: at some point in life, we all develop a passion or two. There may be a writer we like, a sports star, an actor, or a politician. We may, at a certain age, even place their poster on our bedroom wall, scratch their name onto a school bag, or, ill-advisedly, consider a tattoo.

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But none of these heroes – not Elvis, not Nick Cave, not Margaret Attwood, not Ash Barty, not Lionel Messi, not even Albo – will match the status of Santa in the eyes of a child like Maude.

We talk a little about the bouncy castle, which – it turns out – was not a perfect experience, the older kids hogging it, as older kids do, while Maude and the other littlies had to wait their turn.

I feel sorry about that, on Maude’s behalf. But then I remember Christmas.

When it arrives on Sunday those big kids will be world-weary 10-year-olds. They’ll unwrap the presents that various adults have purchased from the various shops in various towns. They will have a good Christmas.

But for Maud, and the other little ones, it will be the day when Santa comes. They waited for the bouncy castle, it’s true, but on Christmas? Well, it’s finally their turn.