Writing during this festive season, I recall two happy episodes when my now grown-up children were small.
The first was a Christmas when Fabian, my youngest son, was still in primary school. His older sister and brother were well into their teens by then. That year, we were going to stay with relatives in Vancouver, Canada, for a white Christmas.
Fabian still believed in Santa Claus, and asked me whether Santa would still fill his stocking if he was so far away. I reassured him suitably. When we were leaving to go to the airport, he was the last to come out, after checking to make sure his stocking was empty and in place.
Then I declared I had forgotten my scarf, went back in for less than two minutes - just in time to shove the toys I had ready into the kids' stockings and grab my purposely-left-behind scarf - and rejoined the family waiting outside.
When we returned from our trip, Fabian dashed inside to check his stocking. Gleefully, he said: "Hurray, Santa did come and give me my present. And all my classmates laughed at me for still believing in Santa. Now I'll show them."
I exchanged knowing looks with the two older children. They kept quiet and didn't expose me, wanting to make sure I kept spending my money on their Santa presents every year: a perfect illustration of the phrase "silence is golden".
The other episode took place around Christmas, when Fabian was two years old, at the square outside the Cultural Centre in Tsim Sha Tsui at a World Children's Day event.
