Hiding bodies and bearing gifts

First, a quick update for regular readers. Son is not a hailstone. He will play the role of a gift bearer in this year's Christmas production and we have been quick to alert him to the responsibility this entails (mainly because he was sobbing like a madman on account of not being an actual wise man. The gift bearer gets to walk behind the wise man. Bearing the gift. Obviously.)

Anyway, the play is no longer Son's primary concern. Husband's nan - Son's great nan for anyone a bit slow - has been in town this week. Son (and Daughter) adore her. In a touching, yet bittersweet twist of fate she seems to get more and more appealing to them as her mind, and in particular, her memory begin to fail.

She is 90 and so, in Son's eyes at least, but a few hours away from hitting the grand old milestone of 100. This is of special excitement because Son is desperate to see a telegram from the Queen, and therefore, desperate that Nanny doesn't die.

Usually, I'd welcome such enthusiastic concern for another's welfare. I'd even probably welcome such an especially keen interest in our monarch, despite the fact that I am not a Royalist myself. I just don't especially welcome the fact that Son is now going around telling anyone who'll listen that his nan is going to get a telegram from the Queen.

Why? Because occasionally, the people he tells are kind enough to try to soften expectations, prepare the little mite for the sorrow that might strike before, not after, her next decade has passed.... and that's when the trouble starts, because Son has a plan.

His plan, should nanny die prematurely is to hide her body, keeping the death secret until the telegram has arrived safely.

Some congratulate his imaginative approach to problem solving. In truth he is a great advert for the new skills based learning approach our education system swears by... it's just he will actually try to do this.

My mother in law (who we moved hundreds of miles to live round the corner from) will announce the death of her mother and whilst overwhelmed with uncontrollable grief will have to listen to Son going on, and on, and on about how we should hide the body.

Is it too late to move away again?

Let it hailstone!

The Christmas play is upon us once more. Unlike the mother of one of Son's classmates, I did not decide to christen Son 'Joseph' in a shallow - but surprisingly effective - attempt to propel him to dramatic stardom. As a result, we must endure another year of angst re. Son's faltering stage career.

This year, Years 1 and 2 will be performing a lesser known interpretation of the nativity in which 3 robins have the lead roles. Cynical parents realise there are 3 robins because by Christmas robin 1 will be bed-ridden with flu and robin 2 will throw up en route to the school hall, leaving just robin 3 to valiantly stagger on. Son, on the other hand, sees this as divine assurance that he will be one of them. 'If there are 3 robins mummy then of course one of them must be me!'.

The remaining cast list has the usual suspects - Mary, Joseph, a donkey - plus 9 stars, 9 big clouds (because who'd want to be a small one?), 5 feathered friends, 8 dancing trees and - my personal favourite - 10 hailstones!

As soon as I read about the hailstones, 3 questions sprang to mind:

1. How have I missed the prominent role of hailstones in the nativity all these years? (and me, the child of religious zealots!)

2. How does one coach one's child into the role of a hailstone... let along produce a costume?

3. What will I say to Son when he turns out to be one?