Dear Santa,
I’ve been a good mom all year. I’ve fed, cleaned, and cuddled my
two children, when they have wanted, and when they haven’t.
I’ve visited their doctor’s office more than my doctor’s, and
I’ve sold 62 cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade
tree in the school playground, and I’ve figured out how to attach
nine patches onto my daughter’s girl scout sash with staples and a
glue gun.
Dear Santa,
I’ve been a good mom all year. I’ve fed, cleaned, and cuddled my two children, when they have wanted, and when they haven’t.
I’ve visited their doctor’s office more than my doctor’s, and I’ve sold 62 cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree in the school playground, and I’ve figured out how to attach nine patches onto my daughter’s girl scout sash with staples and a glue gun.
I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I’ll find anymore free time until maybe they’re in college.
Here are my Christmas wishes:
I’d like a pair of legs that don’t ache after a day of shuttling kids around to soccer games and school all day (my new pair of legs can be in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don’t flap in the breeze. And I might as well ask for a waist, since I lost mine long ago, somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.
If you’re hauling big ticket items this year, I’d like a car with fingerprint-resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn’t broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.
On the practical side, I could use a talking daughter doll that says, “Yes, Mommy,” to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don’t fight, and three pairs of jeans that zip all the way up without the use of power tools.
I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting, “Don’t eat in the living room,” and “Take your hands off your brother,” because my voice seems to be out of my children’s hearing range and can only heard by the dog.
If it’s too late to find any of these products, I’d settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature and that is being served in a Styrofoam container.
If you don’t mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season.
Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family; or if my kids didn’t look so cute sneaking downstairs to eat contraband ice-cream in their pajamas at midnight.
Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the chimney and come in and dry off by the fire so you don’t catch cold.
Help yourself to cookies on the table, but don’t eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.
Oh, and one more thing Santa, you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in you.
Always,
Mom
