Dear Santa (2010) Part I:

Finally, a Santa after my own heart. 

Must be the mediocre version.

I know it’s a little late to be writing you, but I figure with all your magic you won’t have any problem getting this by December 24^th—your busiest workday of the year (unlike my life, which is hectic everyday). I want you to know that I do love you, in all your happy splendor, even if we do have a slightly contentious relationship.

Honestly, Santa, I’m a little annoyed with you. Every year my children sit down to write their Christmas wish list, with their biggest, most expensive request going to you. Why is this? Because you are Santa and you have no budget constraints since your indentured servants elves make all your toys (and electronic gadgets) there in your toasty sweatshop workshop. 

This is a problem for me fat man, because my husband and I don’t get to take credit for scrimping and saving for the “big gifts.” After ripping open their American Girl Dolls, or Nintendo Game Systems, or POOL TABLES for heaven’s sake, our children are shouting, “Thanks Santa!” into the air, (like you can even hear them) while we take credit for the underwear, socks, and functionally warm Christmas sweatshirts. It’s like thanking a Unicorn for knocking out the mortgage. I’m getting tired of letting you take all the credit for my husband’s paycheck and my shopping efforts. Thankfully, you don’t wrap your presents (at least at our house) so I don’t have to do that for you too. (Because finding a wrapping paper that only you have, is getting to be a little difficult too.)

But worse than that Santa, I find myself doing all kinds of things to keep my children believing in you and the magic of the season. How’s that for crazy? I want my children to believe the impossibility that all things are possible. That anything can happen. Paper gingerbread men really can turn into REAL gingerbread cookies on Christmas morning, simply because you willed it. That you can always find us, even if we travel on Christmas Eve, lock all the doors and window tight, or have a fire raging in the fireplace. I perpetuate the myths of the season because seeing that sparkle of hope in my children’s eyes is worth not getting credit for having to take a second mortgage out on the house to pay for “your” gifts. Because Santa…

I lost two believers this year. I know my son knows because now he always refers to you in “air quotes” when others aren’t around. My middle daughter knows too, but she hasn’t come right out and admitted it. We dance around the topic with our usual lies; she’s waiting for me to slip and out you as a farce. But I won’t do it. I won’t say those words until she asks me point blank, and even then I’ll give her another chance by asking, “Are you sure you really want to know?” Of course by that time, they already do know. It’s a little sad for me to know my kids are getting older and skeptical now; a step away from the jaded adults we all become when we know how Christmas really works. 

The good news is that I still have one believer left in the house…my three-year-old daughter who barely understands your story and shtick. We’re all starting to fill her in now on how you work, and I can see the excitement budding in her eyes. So when I asked her what she wanted you to bring her, do you know what she said?

“Coloring books. The big kind.”

Yes. Isn’t that beautiful!? She hasn’t figured out to ask for a TV or a cell phone or a convertible Volkswagen Bug yet (the newly designed 2012 version), taking cues from her big brother and sister. She asked for floor-sized coloring books. And do you know what you are bringing her? Well, of course you do. You’re Santa. I’m betting you’re going to throw in a pack of her own mini markers too, because you are good like that and think of everything.

So I’m focusing on that this year Santa. That my youngest believer-in-you still wants the little things, and is happy with big white pages with dark black lines that she can color. I’m happy to let you take credit for this one. I didn’t have to get a holiday paper route to pay for this gift.

What do my son and daughter want for Christmas, you ask? Or me or my husband? Well, it’s not a very long list Santa, but the items are pricey. I’ll be getting back to you with those items in the next day or two. Right now I have to work on writing more website copy so I can invoice my client and have money to make the higher payments on my credit card. Until you get my next installment letter, continue enjoying your steaming lattes and packing on the pounds while Mrs. Clause waits on you hand and foot. One of these days I'm going to have to write her a letter too...

Sincerely,

Rachel G.

Dear Santa:

I wanted to get a jump on writing you this year. In 2007 you had some difficulty delivering my son’s three-way game table. I’m not sure how this happened since you are Santa, you built the game table yourself, and I would have thought you’da figured a way to get it in the sleigh, but whatever. That’s last year and we’ve moved on. You’ll be glad to know that my son-who could not live without this-never plays with it at all.

This year I’m sending the list instead of my children. That’s because I’m tired of you bringing toys that a) they don’t really want b) are not at all practical c) require $40 bucks in batteries or d) have one million small choke-hazard parts. I’m keeping it simple this year since I know you’ve been feeling the effects of this fabulous economy. All those elfin layoffs must’ a been a headliner at the North Pole no doubt. I’m only asking for one small thing per family member. Since I’m not being selfish, I really hope you can deliver.

For my baby daughter, I’d like a glittery bike helmet.
No, you’re correct, she’s only 17 months old and way too small for wheeled vehicles. I’d like to have the helmet because this cherub of mine’s new habit is to rub her hands through her hair while she eats. I’m not sure if she is fascinated that she now has enough hair to grab onto, or if she prefers her locks to the typical napkin or shirt sleeve. Regardless, it’s gotten outta hand. Last night after her bath, we scraped enough remnants of Chicken Divan from her head to constitute a good-sized lunch. This morning her peanut butter waffle morphed into edible hair wax, and she distinctly resembled the Joker as she dragged her side-hair out into points. There was really no way to get rid of the greasy look without giving her another bath, so all day she looked like I wet mopped a cafeteria floor with her head. That, and she smelled a little nutty. A helmet would go a long way to alleviate the food-hair dilemma. She likes anything that glitters, so I figure she’ll wear it. Just make sure it isn’t too heavy. The last thing I need is her heavy helmet head diving into her pasta.

For my middle daughter I would like a feedbag. I know what you’re thinking Santa, “how cruel.” Rest assured it’s not for food, but for the million small paper scraps that follow my daughter like the dust ball behind Pig Pen. I check her hands nightly, but to my amazement, they really are just simple chubby digits, and not 10 sets of sharp blade action. The feed bag would allow her to cut all her crafts, cards, picture frames, paper dolls, books, library markers, tickets to performances, tree ornaments, and holiday pictures right over the bag, eliminating all that messy clean up. This would be great for both of us; I am going hoarse yelling and nagging about the constant ankle deep scraps I wade through, and she would no longer need to stomp, whine and clench-her-fists-while harumpfing-through-clenched-teeth about cleaning up her crap. It would save us both a lot of hassle. If you could make that feedbag pink or purple and put a big picture of Joe Jonas on it, I know she’d wear it always. (At least during her waking hours.)


For my son I would like to increase his hard-drive capacity by at least 25 gigs. While my son is very smart, he has apparently used up his current memory with information like the secret passes and codes to all his video games, or miscellaneous facts on how and when tornadoes strike, the different elevations of weather related disasters, and plans and traps while playing chess. There is no more room for things like where he put his library book, remembering to turn in his homework, or any sort of ability to stay the least bit on top of things or organized. At first I thought it might be a genetic flaw on the y chromosome, (it still might be) but while I can’t do anything about that, I can try to add some available HD to his person. This would save us both a lot of time-him wandering aimlessly about the house looking for some important school assignment or item, and me not having to swallow my tongue while my anger tries to push the word “idiot” out of my mouth. He’s not (anything close to an idiot), and I haven’t used that word (and won’t) but my controlling sense of order goes haywire when my son is clueless. I’m hoping the extra brain space helps, although, he’ll probably figure out a way to use it to construct a life-size replica of Sponge Bob Square Pants out of leggos, or develop an alternate-time system so he can play his Gameboy and his X-Box 360 simultaneously. All we can do is hope.

For myself I would like some type of reality-filter; something I can wear, ingest, sniff, or glue on, that would take the reality of things and filter that information so only the happy, content illusions get through. Something that allows me to see debris and hairballs on my floors and respond with a genteel smile, instead of a germ-vision infused stomachache. Something that would allow me to sit on the couch and laugh with my children about their lack of reading and inability to stay organized and exclaim mantras such as “At least we’re having FUN!” I’d like to see the crusted urine at the base of the toilet and giggle, kick up dirty laundry with my heels, laugh, dance and sing amidst chaos, destruction and filth. I’d like to go to bed every night dreaming of lollipops the size of my head and what movies I’m going to watch for the next 24 hours, instead of how I’m going to pay the bills and what dinners I can make for under 10 bucks. Since you are Santa, if there is any way you can make this filter also leach patience, I’d greatly appreciate it. Apparently I used up my store of patience in the second week of my marriage 10 years ago, and have been operating in the red ever since. I’m pretty sure my family would write you letters of thanks for this one.

For my husband I would like a pair of Allen Edmonds shoes, size 9 ½. Oh of course there are other things I’d love for him to have; a magnifying glass perhaps to see the fine details, or a wide angle lens to get a glimpse of the big picture. A honing device so he could find the laundry hamper instead of the floor, or special glasses that allow him to read between the lines. I’d love for him to have all these gadgets, but then he would actually have to use them. I’ll be honest with you, it’s a pretty good bet that those gifts will end up gathering dust on top of that must-have game table. So I’ll stick to asking for something I know he’ll wear and enjoy. Allen Edmonds shoes. After all, my man deserves a nice pair of leather foot bling. He does knock out the mortgage after all.

So you see, Santa, my list really isn’t all that long. It’s not selfish. Not filled with materialistic greed or avarice. (Unlike some people’s lists in New York, no doubt.) Simple, to the point. Downright altruistic. I’d really appreciate it if you could deliver these things for our family on time this year. I’m giving you 23 days.

Sincerely,

Rachel G.

Merry Happy New Day

Merry Christmas! I hope this December finds you all well and that Santa brought all the presents to your house in a timely fashion. (He didn’t in mine, but more on that later.) What? It’s not December anymore?

I don’t know what happened this year. I’m quite sure that December shorted me two weeks. It was going along fine, the house was decorated, tree was up, presents (most of them) bought and wrapped, Christmas party had, and then I turned around or blinked or something and now I’m two weeks into January.

I have vague memories of the vet’s office and a euthanasia bill for $109.00, a long plane flight and almost missing our connection in Newark, some wrapping paper bits on the carpet of my parents home, a missing present from Santa, a movie on New Years—that I fell asleep at 9:30 watching—some shopping, a couple brief (but jovial) visits with my grandmother in the hospital, the departure of my husband and two older children back to MA, a rain storm, and the news that my house now contains 125 cases of Girl Scout cookies. Other than these tidbits the last three weeks have pretty much been a blur.

I stayed a few more days in AZ to spend time with my grandparents, while my husband came back to MA with the two older kids. While the few days without the rest of my family was a nice little break (yes of course I missed them terribly), I’m now home to face a shortened January, a house that is littered with open suitcases, baby toys, dirty laundry, Christmas decorations and school papers, there are still 119 cases of Girl Scout cookies downstairs and a cat litter box in my bedroom with no owner. I’d really like to be able to twitch my nose and stop time long enough to catch up and start the new year with a clean, fresh house and outlook, but decidedly, that isn’t going to happen.

I’m so far behind I haven’t done my Christmas letter yet, which will now be a Valentine letter because, dammit, I already printed the pictures to put in them and I’m not going to waste my money. I haven’t had time to make New Year’s resolutions either, one of which was to blog at least three times a week (I’m trying to be practical) and you can see how well I’m doing with that. We are still waiting on the BIG present from Santa, although at this point I think the kids are a bit suspicious of Santa who just couldn’t get it together this year. What happened, you ask? Well, here is the long and short of it:

• Santa was going to bring a pool/hockey combo game table for the kids. It’s consistently been on the list for two years and last year Santa said he couldn’t fit it in the sleigh. He’s had one year to figure it out.
• Santa’s helper found it on sale at a local sporting goods store, 50% off. But it was too heavy for Santa’s helper to purchase and load into the van, especially when that helper always has a baby with her.
• “Will you go, can you go, will you please, can you please, buy the THING for the kids from Santa. It’s on sale.”
• “Yes. Not now, later.”
• “Have you gone, will you go, have you seen, did you get, the THING for the kids from Santa?”
• “Not yet, but later.”
• We repeated these scenes daily for about two weeks. It’s December 22nd, and Santa decides to go shopping.
• I get the call from Santa. “Have you looked on line, can you look on line, to see who else might have these THINGS for the kids? The store is all out.”
• Duh.
• Some angry, disgruntled Christmas words are exchanged.
• Santa finds one on line and purchases it. It will be delivered to the neighbor’s house while we are gone, so we can say Santa dropped it off because it was too big to bring back from AZ.
• Note from Santa on Christmas morning reads: “Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas! Here are a few gifts for you both to open while you are here. I left your big present with one of your neighbors. Boy was it heavy! Here is a hint: You need to be on the 8-ball and full of hot air to enjoy this one. Love, Santa.”
• Three days later, Santa and helper receive email cancellation: THINGS are back ordered and there are none available.
  

At this point my mother suggests just telling the kids there really is no Santa, and that it would be a lot easier than to keep thinking up lies about why there is no Santa present. They are almost 7 and 9 after all. But the last thing I need is for the kids to tell their therapist, “And then there was the year when mom yelled that ‘THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUSE, IT’S REALLY YOUR FATHER AND I, GROW UP YOU SISSY AND ACCEPT THE FACT THAT YOU’RE PARENTS ARE HUMAN AND YOUR FATHER NEVER LISTENS TO ME AND THAT’S WHY YOU DON’T HAVE A PRESENT FROM SANTA’ and shattered my illusions of goodness, happiness and childhood magic. I’ve been jaded ever since.”
So, not one to concede to a challenge (and the mantra, “ItoldyousoItoldyouso-youneverlistentomeItoldyouso” marathoning through my head, I resolved to take matters into my own hands.

• Get online and find a combination pool/hockey table. No it isn’t 50% off. It’s only $50 off. Yes, it’s roughly two and a half times the price of the first one I found on sale. Yes, shipping the two-hundred pound item is a few hundred dollars. But it’s in stock. And can be delivered to the house without Santa’s help.
• I order it.
• I tell Santa, after I order it.
• My husband makes up another lie about why there is still no present from Santa, (upon returning home with children and having no present in sight) something about it being damaged and Santa having to send it to a store to be fixed, so now a store is going to deliver it. The kids seem to buy it. Either that, or they don’t really care about Santa anymore, and just want the damned present that never seems to appear.
• Delivery for said missing THING is coming Friday.
  

You know how this whole scene could have been avoided don’t you? Yes, astute reader, that’s correct.

Happy Merry New Day.