Dear Santa,
I've been a good Mommy all year. I've fed, cleaned, and cuddled my
children on demand, visited the doctor's office more that my doctor, sold
sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the
playground, and figured out how to attach nine patches onto my son's
Boy Scout uniform with staples and a glue gun.
I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I
had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt
in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find any free
time in the next 18 years. Here are my Christmas wishes:
I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple which
I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are
strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the
grocery store.
I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the
7th month of my last pregnancy.
If you are hauling big ticket items this year, I'd like 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 doll that says, "Yes Mommy"
to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and
three pairs of jeans that will 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 just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard
by the dog.
If you don't mind I could use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the
holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a
vegetable? It would clear my conscience immensely.
Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet
under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back.
Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door.
Come in and dry off so you won't catch cold. Help yourself to the cookies
on the table, but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.
Yours always,
Mommy
P.S. One more thing: you can cancel all my requests if you can keep
my children young enough to believe in Santa.
