Dear Santa

Dear Santa:
Well, my God, but it's like . . . what . . . 26 shopping days until Christmas? I haven't so much as snapped my Christmas card picture--you know, the one with the four kids lined up looking like their mischievious, adorable, beautiful selves. I haven't bought a single present. I'm not ready. And the thought of the mall makes me want to throw up. So hopefully most of the people on my list can be bought for here or here or even here.



And if you've been watching through your magic snowball, you know life has been pretty insane these last couple of weeks. Baby Girl still has a fever. I am still without more than a couple of hours sleep . . . and don't even get me started on the laundry pile, Santa. Is that something your elves could handle?

Was I naughty or nice this year? I have to be honest . . . I TRIED to be nice this year. But most of the time, no matter how much volunteering I did or good deeds I tried to do, no matter how many kind words . . . I can't say I did near enough. And if you have to subtract the times I raised my voice, was impatient with Demon Baby, or said something snide just because that's my sense of humor, I'm probably batting . . . zero. I promise to try harder next year.



As for my wish list? Santa, I'm a writer. So pretty much EVERYTHING on my list is intangible. I don't want things. Not one thing. All right, yes, I might like this. But honestly, I can live without it. I'd love for a scholarship to end up in Older Daughter's stocking. College is looming. But I don't think even you can fit that on your sleigh.

So here's my writer's wish list:

• Time. It would be really, really helpful if you could somehow make each day about 28 hours long. I know . . . it's a tall order. But I just can't seem to get it all done. Those pesky deadlines . . . and that pesky Demon Baby. Do the math.


• Serenity. It would be so great if, like, for maybe those extra four hours, Demon Baby could behave. I know, that's a taller order than 28 hours in a day. But if I could write without him . . . letting the dogs loose, pouring salt all over the floor, emptying the maple syrup container all over the table, climbing into the air intake vent, dropping toys down the upstairs air vents, pouring his sister's foundation all over the pale beige carpet, trying to climb out the window, throwing sippy cups at my head, and generally looking for trouble, I am telling you Santa . . . I might actually get something done around here. Just a little serenity.


• Inspiration. Between no sleep, sick kids, Demon Baby, and all the stress on my plate, inspiration has been hard to come by. Can you wave a magic wand or something? I know . . . that's a fairy godmother thing, but there must be something you can do.


• Help. I basically do all this as a single parent . . . all the laundry (did I mention that laundry pile?), housework, kids' homework hour, ferrying to dentists and ninjitsu classes, making beds, cleaning (this one is huge!), childcare, bill paying (huger!!), etc. etc. etc. The list is daunting, and some days, it's all I can do to maintain a grateful heart. But the impact of all this on my WRITING. Oh, Santa . . . seems to me there must be something in your sack that can help me out.

Okay, so that's not too bad a list, is it? I mean, I have other things on my list. A date with Clive Owen (this is right at the top of the list). My dad to get his sight back (okay, put this at the top). World peace (well, I'd give it all up for peace on earth, goodwill toward men--and women). Things too personal to even give voice to most days, and nearly impossible to attain, but then again, isn't that what Christmas is all about? The season of hope?

Well, I better sign off now . . . I'll understand if none of this is under the tree Christmas morning. But, well, whatever you can do. I promise I'll leave cookies.

Erica