Dear Santa...
I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited their doctor's office more than my
doctor and sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. 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 anymore 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, and a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy. If you're 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 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 without it 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. Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is calling 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 and come in and
dry off 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.
Yours Always,
Mom
I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited their doctor's office more than my
doctor and sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. 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 anymore 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, and a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy. If you're 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 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 without it 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. Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is calling 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 and come in and
dry off 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.
Yours Always,
Mom
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| "Sometimes I feel like my only friend." |
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