The moment you see Christmas through your child’s eyes, everything changes. Here’s how I’m trying to make this one unforgettable for Leo.

It’s 05:21am on the 8th of December - just seventeen more sleeps until Christmas.

Another slightly broken night for me. You appeared at the side of my bed around 11pm, no words were exchanged, at this point, I’m a straight fold. I give you a cuddle, a kiss, tuck you under the covers on my side of the bed, and make my way to the spare room.

This time of year always brings something up in me. When I look back on my own childhood Decembers, it’s like opening a door into pure magic. You know the ‘Clausometer’ from the movie ‘Elf’, the thing that measures Christmas spirit? If that had been in our house, it would’ve been permanently topping out. Carols playing, decorations glowing, Grandad in his thick navy Christmas cardigan with a whisky in hand, Grandma with her reindeer antlers on, Uncle Adam in his comically HUGE elf slippers, and Uncle Gareth lining up film after film… and of course, World’s Strongest Man. A tradition I hope becomes ours. Maybe even starting this year.

You’re four now, almost five, as you remind me often. And there’s something about this Christmas that feels significant. Like it might be the first one that roots itself in your memory.

Your mum and I can already see it in you - the belief, the excitement, the way your imagination is beginning to stitch everything together.

Every morning before nursery, you check the chimney. Some days you’re assessing the space (“Is it big enough?”), other days I think you’re checking for movement. And then there are the moments you run to the fridge, build yourself a tower to reach the mini chocolate Santas and leave them by the fire… stockpiling for the big night. Making sure he has enough snacks for that mammoth trip around the world.

I’ve been thinking a lot about traditions and the little rituals that make this time of year feel so different to any other. Christmas is something I look forward to all year. For the cosiness, the kindness, the togetherness… that collective effort we all make to be just a little softer, a little better. Because deep down we know: these are the moments that matter most.

There are a few traditions I want to begin with you, some for us, some that might give other parents reading this a few ideas too.

1. The Festive Fridge
You and I have been loving our chalk-pen art sessions on the fridge. You call out requests, “I want a snowman!” “Let’s do a BIIIGGG Grinch… and his dog!”, and I do my best.

The fridge is now a collage of your imagination, and I’d love for this to become a Christmas tradition. Something that anchors you to the memory of Christmas at home, the same way my memories are anchored to Grandad’s cardigan, the endless boxes of celebrations, the tree present from Grandma on Christmas Eve.

2. Writing Your Letter to Santa
We haven’t done this yet and it’s already the 9th of December. Time to get our skates on.

Sitting in front of me right now is the little red postbox with your name on it. Every letter that goes in there finds its way to the North Pole… or so I’m told.

And I already know one thing that’ll be on your list: “a surfboard with wheels.” By which you mean a skateboard, but honestly, I prefer your wording.

3. The Gift of Giving
This one matters to me.

You are fortunate in many ways, and I want you to grow up understanding the beauty of sharing that good fortune.

So each Christmas, I’d love for you to choose one gift and give it away, to a friend, a teacher, a family member, someone at nursery, someone / anyone who comes to mind.

You’ve always been good at sharing, and I’m proud of that, because selfishness is very low on your dad’s tolerance list.

Living in London, it’s easy to take it all for granted, but London at Christmas is truly beautiful.

So one evening in December, I want us to break the routine, forget dinner-bath-bed, forget the work I think I ‘need’ to finish off - and go for a slow Christmas walk.

Not to the busy places, not to Winter Wonderland or the markets, but just through the streets: Oxford or Regents Street, or just wherever the lights pull us.

No agenda.
Just being in it with you.

You’ll likely be on my shoulders, looking up at the lights.
And someday, when I’m old, I’ll do that same walk and remember the weight of you there, small hands under my chin and my head tilted toward the sky.

5. The Annual Tree Decoration

To that point above, whilst we’re cruising the streets, we’ll stop somewhere, maybe Liberty, maybe somewhere else and you can choose one tree decoration each year.

By the time you’re an adult, maybe with your own family, you’ll have a tree full of stories.
Not random decorations, but a timeline of your childhood, each ornament a memory. 

I’m looking at our tree right now, and this one makes me feel emotional.
But it’s like eating slowly, chewing more, appreciating each mouthful.

Instead of throwing decorations on the branches, you (and your family)  one day can hang individual stories.

WOW - it’s an emotional start to the day for your dad over here and it’s not even 6am yet.
But that’s the beauty of being up at this hour, writing to you: I get to let these feelings run onto the page (and down my face).

I just heard footsteps in the bedroom above, so this is perfect timing for me to sign this one off. 

Alexa, “play Christmas songs”. Time to get extra festive!

Always, 

Daddy 

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P.S.

Thank you for being here. I hope these letters help you pause, reflect, and reconnect with yourself, even for just a moment.