So the Christmas party season has begun and I’m already starting to dream of more sleep and slouching on the sofa in front of an open fire eating copious amounts of mince pies.

The truth is, the excess eating has already commenced and I’m now searching through the wardrobe looking for those maternity jeans I thought I’d never see again (I knew they’d come in handy at some point).

But who cares, we’ll all be on a healthy eating plan of some sort come January, then two weeks later we’ll be over it.

Anyway the excitement continues to hit new levels on the Richter scale in our home.

Every morning we say hello to Father Christmas who hangs on the door downstairs, open a window on our advent calendars, even though I barely get to eat my own chocolate, and we’ve started watching all the great films that bring those childhood memories flooding back.

We’ve already had a few presents under the tree, but I find myself every five minutes, having to drag my 18-month-old daughter away as she tries to rip them open along with every decoration on the tree.

My son has been making me laugh a lot this week.

His vocabulary has advanced so much; I now can say I have two men in my life ordering me about.

He’ll ask me to do something and when completed will say “Good boy, Mummy”. It’s quite nice to get some gratitude, as I give my husband “the look” and he raises his eyes to heaven.

I guess I should cut him some slack, it is Christmas after all, and he does help out a lot around the home.

He’s even offered to cook the Christmas dinner this year. At last, he can put those Master Chef skills to the test. I’ve only had to wait two years.