An Open Letter to Santa...

Dear Santa,
Sorry this letter is in crayon. I can't seem to find any pens, and my daughter, whose arms, legs and torso are covered in little stripes claims to have no knowledge of their whereabouts.

photo credit

I've been a good Mommy this year. I have fed my child (mostly) regularly. And I've really made an effort to offer more healthy selections. I have taken her to the doctor over stuff that I would ignore for a month (or more) in myself. I wasted endless hours sitting in the lobby at Summer Camps so that she would feel secure enough to go in and try. I sat through two months of crying through twice-weekly swim lessons (her, not me) before she stopped hating the water. I tried to make special themed pancakes, even though pancakes hate me. I've stood firm against judgmental looks and comments about my parenting style to ensure she had a no-pressure potty-training experience, breast-fed her until I absolutely had to stop for medical reasons, and have endured much flak (and a much-reduced social life!) in my attempts help her deal with her social, emotional, and sensory issues.

I know it's a little last-minute, but please, could you tack just a few minor gifts on your list for me?

I would like the cheese-curds that are my thighs to look more like they did ten... okay, okay, fifteen years ago.

Could you please make my three bottoms back into one nice 'bounce-a-quarter-off-of' butt? [There's the bottom in the panties, the bottom splooching out of my pantyline, and the extra hump of fat between my bum and my thighs.]

So far I've been lucky, but could you please keep an eye on my breasts? I'd like them to stay in the same rough geographical area that they are currently. And I would prefer if they could never, ever, keep a pencil from falling when placed underneath one, between it and my chest.

Also, please make my upcoming c-section scar heal well. Preferably invisibly. And somehow make that pooch of fat disappear while you're at it? And make sure my abdominal muscle goes back where it belongs, so I don't have a big muscle flopping down to my knees, like my poor sister after both her c-sections.

I know those are all fairly 'selfish' cosmetic requests. But really... you can't truly love someone else until you love yourself, right?

Maybe could you also ensure my bathroom door magically closes itself to keep the warm air in whenever a child comes in to bother me tell me she loves me while I'm taking a shower? And it would be great if I didn't have to go on a scavenger hunt for my glasses when I get out. Although apparently my daughter manages to apprehend the bandits who came and took them... if only she could remember where they left them...

It would also be fantastic if you could get the makers of Moon Sand, Moon Dough and Play-Doh to come to my house and vacuum up the mess after.

And maybe put the lids back on all the "good" pens every time?

Also, if you could insure that any broken crayon bit magically disappears somewhere other than down the heater vent or into my cat's gullet (and subsequently back on my carpet... with interest)?

I would really appreciate it if you could make Elmo's, Dora's and all the other kiddie cartoon/puppets' voices just a weeeee bit less annoying?
Also, could you wipe Spongebob Squarepants, Fairly OddParents, and Fanboy and Chum Chum completely off the face of the Earth (or at least Netflix On Demand)? Or just give my husband two brain cells to rub together when he's watching cartoons and try to have him preview them before letting her watch? While you're at it, can you completely wipe her memory of ever watching Robot Chicken with him? Talk about NOT appropriate for children...!

If these all seem beyond your scope of expertise, then maybe just pay off my credit card bill before my husband notices? Thanks!

Merry Christmas,
Mommy

PS: Oh yes. And please keep my family healthy and together, etc etc. World peace and all that. Thanks.

PPS: Also, please please PLEASE can you get my husband to close the frickin-frackin' medicine cabinet doors every time he gets something out of there, so I'm not bonking my head EVERY TIME I lean down to use the toilet? He can only use his "but I had brain surgery 4 years ago" excuse for so long before I'm ready to cause some grievous bodily harm! I can handle him drawing a complete blank when I ask him where he moved something of mine to when he was cleaning. I accept that once he finds where I keep a pair of nail clippers that they will be lost for all time. I can live with finding the milk on the table or counter, hours after breakfast was over. I was fine with finding the back door wide open for hours, causing the 4-day disappearance of our kitty over the Thanksgiving weekend. But if I bonk my head ONE MORE STINKIN' TIME, so help me...!

The Writing Prompt I chose for this week was : An Open Letter to Santa