So it’s roughly 43 sleeps till Christmas. Two words – Holy Shit.

Divide that by 7 (Bare with me while I find the computer calculator – yes I agree, it is truly scary my day job involves numbers) and we have roughly 6 pay days (if you’re paid weekly – like me).

Basically we’re fucked.

I mean, I heard the Little Drummer boy in Myer last week and I outwardly cursed the stupid conglomerate. I mean it’s barely November and already the incessant cheeriness is being rammed down my throat whilst shopping for push-up bras and ginormous knickers.

The tinsel has made it’s way to the forefront of all Kmart stores and I even, (gag) brought a $2 Best of Christmas CD from Crazy Clarks after an unnatural insistence from the two year old to possess it. Mind you, once I was in the clear, it made it’s way to the CD pile of death alongside Human Nature and the the Best of Dannii Minogue.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. I love the magic for the kids and I love spoiling the bejebus out of them. Yeah yeah, I know it’s just stuff and when they get too much, they don’t appreciate blah blah blah.

But it makes me happy to make them happy.

And I refuse to give that up yet. There's plenty of years left for it to be just a day that Aunty Maria* gets blind and insults the whole family after overstaying her welcome and shitting on the toilet seat. Plenty.

In a perfect world, I would have lay-by’d the kids presents at an awesome toy sale, gotten them off before the threat of death Lay-by letter, got them safely tucked away in an awesome hiding spot (that I may or may not have forgotten the exact whereabouts of by Christmas Eve) and have them wrapped and ready for the big day.

But as we all know, this is not a perfect world. And I am not a perfect Mum. My housewife status leaves a lot to be desired too.

So this year, I’m going to the shopping centre, and I don’t care where it is, that has the 24 shopping going on. And I am going to shop my arse off. With a list and my husbands 4x4 to haul them home in. One hit. Shop like a man. Get in and get the fuck out.

This disappoints me somewhat because I am a shopper. I love to shop and I love the copious amounts of coffee that gets consumed whilst shopping.

So friends who read this blog, if you receive a heinous present this year, like the Fish that sings “Don’t worry be Happy” or Size 16 knickers, you know I shopped for you last. Sorry about that in advance.

*Aunty Maria is a generic name for any one person in any one family. There's always one.