Good Evening Manly,

…After a very long hiatus involving falling madly in love with the man of my dreams, getting engaged and pushing a little human out of my body, it’s just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise.

I’m aware that it may seem like the wrong time of year for this post, but the Canadian in me senses Christmas as soon as cozy weather arrives. The middle of May in Australia reminds me of late autumn in Toronto – a few leaves start to change colour, thicker socks come out of the drawer, followed by red wine and sexy dates with Netflix in bed; after all, it’s difficult to change thirty-something years of seasonal conditioning.

So considering the environmental cues, and the fact that this just popped into my mind, I would love to share a brief story about a real life Santa Claus and an unexpected act of kindness.

December 2019 – my first Christmas as a Mother. We felt very lucky to spend it with my sister and her family in a big farmhouse, with a fully stocked kitchen and a dog. We played with the alpacas, swam in the pool and placed milk and cookies out for Santa in anticipation of a Christmas morning gift extravaganza. I love watching my two nephews engage in the same traditions my younger sister and I held so dear to our hearts. We try our hardest to maintain many Canadian holiday customs despite the steamy, sunny, beachy weather most often greeting us on the 25th of December. 

A few days prior to the big event, to maintain the customary routine of my Mother, my sister and I popped off to the shops to buy the ‘last few gifts’. Despite her greatest efforts, our Mother always required a few more ‘last few gifts’. It felt good to maintain a comfortable predictability of home, considering we now exist amongst an odd summer landscape claiming to be Christmas.  

This being said, eight Aussie Christmases in, I’m gently welcoming the change, yet I highly doubt it can ever entirely replace the magic of Christmas in winter.

I recall waking up in the dark hours of the morning, gazing out my icy snow-laced windows, searching around for my slippers and robe to make the first descent to see if Santa had come. This would always be followed by a meagre attempt to gently awake my sister so we could begin pitter pattering amongst the sparkly gifts cascading throughout the living room.

We were very fortunate children and Santa was always ridiculously generous in our house. The effort my parents put in to create a magical and special experience for us for many, many years hasn’t gone unnoticed. 

So here we were, my sister, my son and I, happily  wandering around the shops of the idyllic countryside town a few hours south of home in search of more magic for our boys. We sat down at the best cafe in town and as my sister went in to order our coffees, I began to nurse my impatient three month old son.

While attempting to calm his little kicking legs, I noticed a warm smile from an older gentleman with a white beard sitting at the table next to us. I could tell he was watching me, but not in some uncomfortable, intrusive way. He was observing as if seeming to remember something special from a time from his past. I could feel happiness and melancholy from his subtle observance of our mother-son moment. 

As we finished our pit stop and felt ready for some serious shopping time, the older man quietly stood up, approached me and said with yet another big smile on his face, ‘You have very good posture while breastfeeding! Good for you’. I giggled at the thought, as I had been struggling with shoulder and neck pain from a billion hours of horrible posture while breastfeeding for the past twelve weeks. I simply said with a big smile, ‘Thank you’, (as he didn’t need my victim story) and we went on our way. 

The perfect little village had, of course, a perfect little toy shop. It was the kind of shop run by the same passionate family for years, filled with wooden fixtures, warm lighting and a full selection of felt toys and books. There wasn’t a plastic machine gun in sight. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me that Harry Potter lived in the attic. 

Noah was finally asleep in his pram, so I wandered around the friendly shop excitedly making mental lists of the cool toys I was going to be able to get for my sons’ holidays to come. 

My sister had made her selection and was asking me for my approval when I casually mentioned to her, ‘Do you know what I’d love to get for Noah…his first toy car’. That’s all. I just said that and then my sister went to the register to pay for her gift. 

Less than a minute later, maybe it was only a few seconds, as I was peering at another corner of educational toys, I received a tap on the shoulder. It was the same white-bearded man with the same warm smile on his face from the cafe. He was holding a small, beautifully wrapped gift with a sparkly silver ribbon. He said to me, ‘If you can guess what’s in this gift my dear, then it’s a gift for your son’. I instinctively laughed, assuming that it was just a fun joke, but to indulge the game with the recent toy desire in my mind, I responded, ‘It’s a car!’ 

The old man grinned an even bigger smile and handed the little box to me. All he said was, ‘Merry Christmas’. 

That was it. He turned around and walked away. I was shocked. He just gave me a gift completely out of the blue. I felt overwhelmed with his generosity. I said an exuberant thank you and my sister and I left the store mirroring massive smiles at the lovely moment we had just experienced. 

The funny thing is that it didn’t matter what was in that beautifully wrapped little box, the box could have been empty and it felt like the most special gift I had received in years.

Low and behold, amongst the gift extravaganza, laughter and wrapping paper shrapnel, my fiance and I helped Noah to open his mystery Christmas gift.

Guess what it was?

A toy car. 

…and not just any car. It was a shiny, top of the line, British red racing car with a big number five on the front.

Guess what my favourite number is?

Yes, you’re correct. 

I believe that Christmas magic does exist. It exists regardless of being surrounded by green grass and hot salty air, or snow-filled driveways and the smell of chimney smoke. Christmas magic exists in May and December and all of the seasons in between. It is always only just one small gesture away. 

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. 

xx