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Koala Moon: Kids Bedtime Stories & Sleep Stories for Kids Podcast
Father Christmouse: Santa's Secret Spy 🐭🎅 Cozy Kids Bedtime Stories
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Hello and welcome back to Koala Moon, a podcast of original bedtime stories and sleep meditations for kids designed to make bedtime a dream. Tonight, Coco, Kira and I are shouting out a very special girl who's been listening every night for three years and recently she turned six years old on the 9th of October. Hi Riley, welcome to the clubhouse. We are simply delighted you're in the Koko Club and hope you had a wonderful birthday too. Before we begin, a quick message for the grown ups. If you'd like to support our podcast, enjoy ad free listening, unlock four bonus stories per month and much, much more, you can join Coco Club. Subscribe in just two taps via the link in the show notes, but now here's a quick word from our sponsors. This message is sponsored by Greenlight as parents, some parts of the job get easier, like when your kids can finally make their own snacks or get ready for bed. But other lessons like teaching them about money, take a little more care. When my kids were little, we'd talk before bed about what they wanted to save up for and a book, a toy, sometimes even something for someone else. Those chats are lovely, but it's hard to turn them into real world lessons. That's where Greenlight comes in, a debit card and money app made for families. Parents can send money, track spending and set saving goals while kids build money, confidence and real life financial skills. There's even a chores feature where you can set up tasks and reward kids when they're complete. I have to say, if my kids had been paid to do the dishes, they'd have been a lot more motivated. Kids learn to save, spend wisely and even invest with you, all through fun, easy tools that make money management part of everyday life. It's no wonder millions of parents and kids are learning about money together on Greenlight, the number one family finance and safety app. Don't wait to teach your kids real world money skills. Start your risk free Greenlight trial today@greenlight.commoon that's greenlight.commoon to get started greenlight.commoon we know our listeners have the most incredible imaginations. From sharing story ideas to showing us how creative they can be with characters, the new Paw Patrol Fire Rescue toys celebrate that same spirit of creativity, helping little heroes feel proud of the stories they create. Your little storyteller can join Marshall and the team on their biggest adventures yet, with the all new Fire Station HQ where they can gear up and slide down the pole and Marshall's rapid reload fire truck ready for action. Every pup has their own vehicle so kids can recreate their favourite rescues from the show or dream up their own. It's creative, hands on play that inspires teamwork and confidence. The perfect way to keep their imaginations shining bright. So when the time comes for a new adventure, check out the Red Hot Paw Patrol Fire Rescue Toys. Available now at all major retailers. Now then, all of you. Have any of you wondered how Father Christmas or Santa or St Nicholas, to give him his very proper name, manages to deliver all the gifts on Christmas Eve to the right homes? Well, once you've heard the very start of this story, you'll know all about it and you can pass on the intel to all your friends. Unless you decide to keep it our little secret. Before I let you into the secret though, jump into your lovely warm bed. Get your ears and your body ready to listen. That means lie back, take some breaths in and out. Close your eyes and settle under your covers. Fill your minds with visions of snowflakes, glowing warm fireplaces, gift stuffed stockings and gingerbread houses decorated with white icing and sugar coated sweeties. Yes, it's time for me to begin. Father Santa's Secret Spy by Luke Prendergast. The Santa center in Lapland is a tumbling town of many different kinds of buildings. There are the big warehouses, of course, where the elves in their red and green outfits perform their own mysterious magic to build the most brilliant toys in existence. Then the gifts are borne aloft in the air by some unseen currents to be wrapped in paper by other elves and tied up in strings and labeled with the correct name. After that, the packages are sent to the sorting office, where they're organised by world continent, country, town and house to ensure that they make it to the right place on Christmas Eve. But it's not all about presents. There are the elves lodgings, of course. Little chocolate box buildings with candy cane windows and chimneys that emit not smoke but puffs of fine white icing sugar. There are the stables where the reindeer live, munching through great piles of hay so that they can have a full store of energy for their intergalactic trip. There's Tinsel Terminal, the airport where visitors arrive. And there's the Lapland Light Railway where trains pull in bearing all kinds of raw materials required by the elves to do their manufacturing work. Then there's the large snow capped house where Santa Claus lives with Mrs. Claus, the windows frosted with ice and the smell of gingerbread wafting from behind its doors. There are storerooms and a small doctor's surgery and a school where the elf children go to study all the lore of Christmas. Its rites and rituals, its rules and regulations. And then, of course, there's Santa's office. Given that the rest of the Santa center practically glimmers with magic and mystery and wonder, his office looks remarkably like any other office you'd find in the world. A little bland, filled with filing cabinets and shelves and loose bits of paper, with a picture of Mrs. Claus beaming on the wall to bring the space a little pizazz. Santa was in this office one afternoon doing some much overdue paperwork, when from outside, a couple of elves heard a noise from within. It sounded as though Santa had shouted, oh no. With haste, the two owls tottered in through the door to discover Santa stood up behind his busy desk, his cheeks turning pink with frustration. What's happened, Santa? Asked one of the earls, who had a crop of bright pink hair. Is everything ok? Asked the other elf, who had a silver belt and buckle tied around his uniform. I've just been going through the Christmas lists for all the children in the world, Santa said, making sure that everything is in order. But it appears that the list belonging to just one child has been lost. It's missing. Oh dear, said the elf with pink hair. Which child? A young boy named Timmy, Santa said. The pink haired elf nodded. Maybe we could help you look again. I've already looked thrice, Santa said, rifling once more through the pile of Christmas lists on his desk. It's not here, and that certainly won't do. We can't have one child missing out this Christmas. We need to find out what was on that list. But how? Hmm. And he stroked his long white beard thoughtfully. After a few moments, the elf with the silver belt raised his hand. Ahem. Santa, surely this calls for the help of one creature and one creature only. Santa raised his bushy eyebrows at the elf. Oh, yes? He asked. And who's that then? Why, said the elf. Father Christmas, of course. Behind his big round eyes, Santa's eyes twinkled. Of course. Father Chris Mouse, a magical and mischievous mouse who'd once been in charge of delivering Christmas presents to all the mice around the world and slipping into chimneyless homes that Santa couldn't get access to. In the years since then, Father Chris Mouse's stealth and agility had turned him into Santa's most prized secret agent. Who better to sneak into a house and recover clues about a lost Christmas list? Santa smiled. Ho ho ho. He said. Perfect. And so the two elves set out to Father Christmaus's hut, and when they got there, and knocked upon the door. They discovered that he was busy cleaning his super spy glasses. The glasses let him see in the dark, but not if they were dusty. The earls told him that Santa needed him. There was a mission of supreme importance for which he was required right away. So quickly, but ever so calmly, Father Christmas got ready. He put on his black turtleneck with the snowflake badge, wrapped his green and red bandana around his head, and slipped on his sunglasses. He was ready to go. Father Christmas, santa said, standing outside the door of his office. Thank you for arriving so quickly. The little grey mouse grinned. Secret Agent Chrismouse reporting for duty, he said. What's up? Santa explained the situation to Father Christmas. A child's Christmas list had gone missing. Such a thing had never happened before. Usually they were able to keep a handle on the billions of lists that arrived from all the different worlds each winter. But this time it was a different story, and the mistake needed to be remedied. Santa needed Father Christ Mouse to sneak, silent as could be, into the boy's house and look for clues as to what he might want for Christmas. Any information the spy could gather would be helpful. But one thing was crucial. On no account could Father Chris Mouse be spotted by the child, Timmy, or his parents. If he was, the spell of Christmas would be broken. The mission was top secret. Stealth was of the utmost importance. Got it, said Father Chris Mouse, nodding his head and turning on his heel. He was ready for his mission. But then he paused for a moment and looked over his shoulder. One question, he said. Where does this kid live? Ah, said Santa. He lives in a cottage in a very sleepy little village. A village called Lower Starry Skies. Only a few minutes later, Father Christmas was flying his tiny spycopter through the skies above Lapland. He nudged the stick a touch to the left, making sure he was travelling in just the right direction. All around him, clouds puffed up like candy floss or like giant marshmallows. And as he travelled, he watched the sky dim from a pale blue to the rich purple of twilight. At some point he passed through a portal in the sky. A portal known only to Santa, his reindeer, and his special agents, one that let them move with ease between different worlds. When it was time, he directed his spycopter to begin its descent. And when at last he alighted on the tiled roof of a cosy cottage in the village of Lower Starry Skies, the sky was dark, the golden moon was out, and stars glittered like dozens of fireflies. He switched off the engine and slipped out of the cockpit. It was a chilly night, but his turtleneck kept him warm. Briefly, Father Chris Mouse took in his surroundings. Across the way, an owl hooted and the rustling of the trees sounded like secrets whispering. On the side of the house, Father Chris Mouse spotted electronic equipment suggesting that the cottage had elaborate and robust security. Would there be alarms? Trip wires? Heat seeking scanners? He would have to be cautious. He crept along the roof towards the gutter. When Santa came to visit houses at Christmas, he he had to clamber inelegantly down chimneys. But being a tiny mouse and a secret agent to boot, Father Chris Mouse had craftier ways of gaining entry. He hopped into the gutter, found a tiny mouse sized hole and slipped into the cottage. He found himself in the top corner of a living room. Plush sofas with tasselled cushions, a fireplace, family photographs hanging on the wall. He attached a suction cup to the ceiling, clipped it to his tiny harness and slowly lowered himself from a string as thin and strong as spider silk until his toes touched the floor. He unclipped himself and stowed away the harness. The door lay on the other side of the living room. He needed to get through the door and out to find the bedroom belonging to Timmy. But something made Father Christmas pause before crossing the room. His secret agent senses were tingling and he'd learnt that when those tingled, you needed to pay attention. Slowly, he raised a paw to his head and pressed a tiny button on the side of his sunglasses. There was a little whirring sound that only he could hear as his glasses switched into night mode. Ah. Just as he'd suspected, the cottage did have a robust security system. The room was filled with invisible lasers, which his high tech glasses had now shown up as narrow red and green beams crisscrossing all over the place. A more foolish creature might have tripped those lasers and no doubt set off some kind of security system. But not Father Chris Mouse. He was too smart for that. Now. He raised a paw very slowly indeed and inched it over the nearest laser, lowering it down gently on the floor on the other side. Then he did the same with his other paw. That was the first laser crossed and it was easy peasy. The next laser was at chest height, but that was a cinch too. Father Christmas bent over backwards and did the limbo straight under it, agile and flexible. That was why he was Santa Claus number one secret spy. Moving with absolute care and precision, he crossed the room, stepping and hopping and rolling and crawling as demanded by the direction of the lasers. And before he knew it, Father Chris Mouse had reached the door. He took one backward glance at the room of lasers, then slipped out into the corridor. The cottage was dark, lit only by the glow of moonlight swimming in through the windows. It fell in puddles on the floor, and as Father Chris Mouse crept along the corridor, he sidestepped these puddles of light. Just for fun. He reached the foot of the stairs, climbed up them, reached the landing, and encountered an unexpected surprise. At the top of the stairs, right in front of him, lay a sleeping tabby cat. Oh dear, oh dear. All that time spent rehearsing the mission in his head while his spy copter made its flight as low as starry skies. Not once had he prepared for a game of cat and mouse. He had to think on his feet. His only option would be to move extra quickly, extra cautiously, so as not to wake up the sleeping feline. But even as he had this thought, one of the cat's bright green eyes opened. Father Chris Mouse crouched a little on his paws, readying himself to scurry up a wall and disappear through a window, should that be required. But the cat, spotting him, only smiled and said, hello there, little mouse. You're new here. Father Chris Mouse paused. The cat sounded friendly enough with her gentle, purring voice and her kindly green eyes. But Father Chris Mouse was, after all, a mouse, and he knew it was best to keep his wits about him. You're not gonna chase me? He asked. Most cats chase mice. They meet sneaking around their corridors. The cat let out a little laugh. Oh, no, she said. I've got no intention of chasing you anywhere. In fact, I like mice. I have a whole bunch of mice friends who live down in the kitchen. Sometimes when my owners are asleep, I sneak down and leave out little crumbs of cheese, cheddar, and Parmesan so that the mice can have a midnight feast. But like I said, I've never seen you here before. What are you doing here? What the mice had said had put Father Christmas greatly at ease. She was a friendly cat indeed. For a moment, though, he hesitated. Hadn't Santa told him that no one could spot him on his secret mission? No, that wasn't quite it. He had said that neither Timmy nor Timmy's parents could spot him, and this was no child or a parent but a cat. So he told his new friend just what he was doing here, that he was looking for any clues as to what Timmy might want for Christmas. You couldn't happen to tell me which room is his? He asked, using his most sweetly charming voice. It would save me A lot of bother searching each and every room. Oh yes, said the cat. With a sweep of her long silver tail. She pointed behind her towards a door at the end of the corridor. He's all snuggled up in that bedroom there, but be careful, he's easily woken up. Thanks for the heads up, said Father Chris Mouse, and giving his new friend a grateful nod, he passed by her, tiptoed up the corridor, and slipped under a slender crack beneath the door. The bedroom was warm and cosy. A single lamp flickered on a small table, its light mixing with the moonlight so that the room was suffused with a golden glow. There were some toys on the floor, some bookshelves, a messy desk, and a bed upon which Father Christmas could make out a duvet covered shape, rising and falling gently like a ship bobbing slowly on a tranquil sea. So the boy was asleep. That was good. That certainly made the Mouse's job a lot easier. And so he began to creep around the bedroom looking for clues. Father Chris Mouse had been training as a secret spy all his life and had honed the ability to scan a room, note details, and pick up on anything unusual down to perfection. So now, with just the merest glance, he took it all in. The volumes on the shelves were science themed books about dinosaurs, about space, stories about magical other worlds that might be useful. He climbed the leg of a desk and rummaged through the sheets of paper on the desk. Just worksheets of homework, torn pieces of paper, a few doodles of what appeared to be a golden retriever and a cocker spaniel climbing up a tree. Nothing useful there. Where else could he look? He turned around and gazed down at the bed where the kid's head with its crop of messy brown bed hair could be seen lying on the pillow. Nothing useful there, he thought. But underneath the bed. Well, weren't people, no matter whether they were old and young, always dropping things under their beds? Who knew? There might well be something useful under there? So Father Chris Mouse silently descended the desk leg, tiptoed across the room, and snuck under the bed. The folds of the child's duvet hung down off the edge, casting large triangles of shadow onto the floor. Father Christmas pressed another little button on the side of his sunglasses, and the dark underneath of the bed was illuminated an old grey sock scrunched up into a ball, a forgotten and frayed stuffed giraffe toy, some lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, even half of a chocolate chip cookie that appeared to have been lost under the bed for some time. But none of this stuff was particularly useful. Perhaps there was something else in that back corner. There, so focused was Father Chris Mouse on searching for clues that as he went towards the back corner underneath the bed, he didn't notice his paw coming down on the old giraffe toy, which let out a little squeak. He caught his breath, hoping that the child above hadn't heard the noise. But alas, his hopes were not answered. There was the sound of a creaking and a rustling from above. And the next moment, Timmy's upside down face appeared, hanging off the side of the bed, peering underneath. Father Chris Mouse had just enough time to slip behind one of the bed's legs to hide. He held his breath, and behind his back he crossed the fingers of one of his paws. Timmy looked this way and that, then let out a little. Hmm. And the next moment the sound of his heavy breathing returned to the room, indicating that he was drifting back off to sleep. Phew, thought Father Chris Mouse. That was almost a close call. But he'd been a secret agent for long enough he knew how to deal with the little boy who'd woken up in the night. He just had to wait for the soft hug of sleep to return. Eyeing the squeaky giraffe toy carefully so that he didn't accidentally step on it again, he tiptoed quietly out from under the bed. The boy was asleep once more. And as Father Christmas glanced around the room, he realised that he had checked everywhere that he could. There hadn't been many clues here, nowhere near as many as he'd hoped there might be. He didn't know whether the information he'd gathered about Timmy would be enough for Santa to be able to work with. But sometimes missions didn't go perfectly. Sometimes you had to make do with the way things were. But then, as he crept across the room back towards the door, Father Christmas spotted something. Something he he hadn't noticed before in the room. A waste paper bin. How had he not seen it before? He supposed that his eye must have passed over it and his brain automatically dismissed it as unimportant, for what of any significance could be found in a rubbish bin? But now that he paused to think about it, perhaps there could be something useful in there. For some reason or other. The rubbish bin was now calling out to him. His secret agent senses were tingling. Once again, he had to listen to them. Father Chris Mouse slipped back across the room under the desk and climbed a tall metal rubbish bin. Standing on the rim of it, he looked down at the discarded rubbish. A birthday card, a magazine and There. What was that? It was a piece of paper he hung from the side of the bin with one paw, and with the other he reached down until his fingers closed around the edge of the paper. Then he clambered back up until he was standing on the rim and unfolded the sheet, which turned out to be bigger than him. It was covered with the kid's scrawly, scrappy writing, a list of some kind, and at the top, in capital letters, what I want from Santa. It was the draft of Timmy's Christmas list. Bingo, whispered Father Christmas. Fifteen minutes later he was back in his trusty spycopter, flying quietly through the dark night sky above lower starry skies. There was a smile on his face and a feeling of deep satisfaction in his tummy, because on the seat next to him, folded up once more, lay Timmy's draft Christmas list. He'd done it. Santa was bound to be well pleased. Before him the clouds were touched with the soft glow of moonlight. Below tumbled the tiled roofs of houses, and here and there a light twinkled in a window where someone was up very late or perhaps had simply forgotten to turn off their light. Father Chris Mouse let out a yawn and stretched his arms and legs as best he could in his spy copter. It had been a long evening. A difficult mission had been completed. He deserved a rest. In fact, he thought to himself, the stars in the sky were so beautiful, the great puffs of cloud in front of him so pale and pillow soft, that he thought he deserved asleep right away. He was lucky then that he was in his spy copter, for his spycopter had the greatest self flying technology known to man or mouse. He reached forward and pressed a big green button on the dashboard, and with a little click his spycopter shifted into self flying mode. Destination Santa Center Lapland. Knowing that the spy copter would take him back home, Father Chris Mouse leaned his seat backwards and closed his eyes. Beneath him, the vehicle felt weightless. It felt as though he was not in any kind of aircraft at all, but that he had become a cloud, a light, soft cloud, and was now trans drifting peacefully through the sky. It was ever so tranquil, ever so peaceful, that Father Chris Mouse's mind began to drift off and in a few long seconds he was fast asleep. And so it was that the spycopter sailed through the sky, passing out of lower starry skies northward and northward, until almost imperceptibly, it passed back through the portal and into the world where Santa lives, its blades whirring softly through the night, taking Father Christmas, Santa's secret spy, back to where he belonged. Back to Lapland. Back to Santa Sam.