Dear Santa,
I know it’s been awhile since I’ve written to you last, but I hope you might remember me and that you receive this letter.
This year, as with last, I’ve been juggling the roles of mom, wife, friend and daughter, but it seems when I’m excelling in one avenue, I’m playing catch-up in the rest-oops! As you may recall, I have a one-track mind, and so my focus this year has been on my children. It allows for the others in my life to remember that forgiveness and patience, with me, is a virtue.
And as a mom, if you’ll recall, I’m doing my very best not to raise assholes- that is my foremost goal. This means I’m not supposed to act like one either, which is obviously the tricky part, and an especially lofty goal for myself this holiday season.
You’re the boss, so I’m going to provide you with some examples of me doing my best this holiday season to help remind you who I am so you can gauge if I’m an asshole or not, and whether I deserve a visit.
We’ll start with a circumstance that arose just the other day, when I felt obliged to purchase my girls matching pyjamas for our Christmas portrait. Wren (who prior our shopping spree must not have even known the colour white existed as an option for clothing) chose white footie jammies, out of the 93 other more stain friendly options in the Carter’s store, for herself and her sister. It was literally the worst choice she could have made, as I’m sure they accumulated mysterious dirt just being in Wren’s presence. But, a promise is a promise and my mom was paying, so we took them home.
Millie, my youngest one, just moments before portrait time that night, took an explosive shit of the slimiest mustard goo kind, both up the front and the back of the $12 Carters pyjamas. The diaper didn’t stand a chance against that 5-wiper.
Santa, I will admit I still put the slimy shit-ridden jammies right back on her ass and took the photo anyways. Wren was ready, and the tree, in its four decorations glory, was erect and standing with at least 50 of its 200 lights a-shining. Facebook made me feel like I had to get this done. I promise I cut the photo off at the waist so as not to shame her for an eternity in her first-ever Christmas card photo, and then we seriously peeled them off her after we took a very painful series of ‘oh, good enough’ photos and she got the rub-down.
Santa, does that sort of behavior put me on your naughty asshole list? Nobody will even know, right?
While we’re on the subject, I have to confess we had another shitty episode last weekend with Mill and Wren while out at the Nutcracker.
Naively, for some reason I thought it would be a magical and festive experience if I single-handedly took the two girls to the swanky Rebecca Cohn theater for their evening premiere. In the midst of Wren making fourteen last minute outfit changes ten minutes after we were supposed to leave, (in case you’re wondering Santa, she settled on sagging leopard print pyjama bottoms and a belly top) I had to rush us out the door. It was only by intermission that I realized I had consequently forgotten to bring any diapers. And yes, at this point the smell from Millie’s festive surprise had long-since started to emanate straight down Row K, and the woman sitting against my right forearm couldn’t possibly raise her nose any higher for Act 2 if I didn’t get this looked after.
What was I to do Santa? All I could think was to make a beeline for some unsuspecting mom of a newborn baby to ask for a diaper. It is a hard fact that first-time moms always have 19 diapers on standby at any given moment, and next to me, are the only ones crazy enough to take their kid to a play of this sort. Is it OK that I then terrified a sweet elderly Chinese woman, by accident, who while washing her hands in the public bathroom, watched me first smear and scoop the poop out of my kid’s cloth diaper with toilet paper, then line the sopping cloth diaper with a newborn disposable one? I did explain to her that my 6 month old, whom I force-fed for the entire three hours, wouldn’t get through the production any other way.
Upon returning to the show, my four year old, who balanced literally upside down on the cement floor with her feet kicking in the air, insisted she needed to do so, so that her unicorn, Fantasia, could have a seat. Santa, I know it may have interfered with the 20 rows of people behind us being able to see, but it was the only time she wasn’t shouting obvious shit at the stage like, “MAMAAAAAA, HER DRESS IS BLUE!’ because she couldn’t see anything but the fancy lady’s stilettos behind her. Being upside down also granted us the only time all night that her pants covered up her Elsa and Anna underwear that fit like a thong in the front because they’re a size 2, and so that is why I left her to her upside down thing.
It accomplished more good than not, right Santa?
Santa, also please also keep in mind I have taken my kids to not one, but two of your Christmas parades this year. Wren loves seeing you so much that I couldn’t resist dragging the whole damn family out not once, but twice, in the pouring rain to see you. Her eyes light up and her dance moves come out, and she is that two-year-old joyful child I remember very vaguely in memory.
But Santa, is it OK that I cursed at the 12-year-old boy that brought an entire reusable bag to collect candy in, who insisted on standing right the fuck in front of us even though it’s Bridgewater and there was a shit-ton more space to stand? To tell you the truth, I bet he doesn’t even care about you anymore- that’s how he was acting, anyway. I know I have kids, but that doesn’t mean I have to actually like or enjoy all children, right?
Is it OK that I secretly encouraged my kid to continue to sneak right up beside his ass every time he inched forward so that she had a chance in hell of seeing the parade or of getting any candy for herself or for me? I really like candy canes and my breath was pretty bad because I hadn’t brushed my teeth in two days. I’m sure the candy canes helped that, so thanks if you had anything to do with supplying them.
Finally Santa, as you may know, we are broke this year, and so that’s why I’ve been trying to provide our family with all these damn experiences to have together instead of focusing on the stuff. Last week, at the Mahone Bay Father Christmas Festival, even though it was ONCE AGAIN pouring rain, I took my kids because Wren wanted to go on the horse-drawn sleigh ride. It cost 80cents more than we had on us, so as you may know, I short-changed that sweet, innocent elderly gentleman accepting the change and because it was all in dimes and nickels, he didn’t know. I’ve felt like an asshole ever since, I swear, and I know that type of behavior is what I’m trying not to encourage, but I felt like Hatfield Farms was charging a bit much for a four minute ride down the piss-pouring street.
I do hope I didn’t starve a horse or an elderly man that day, as that was certainly not my goal. The next time karma has me stepping in horseshit I promise I won’t act surprised.
Finally, on my quest to not raise assholes this year, by trying not to be one, I’ve decided my gift to my kids is to put together a family album highlighting the times we weren’t crying or fighting with each other. There are 142 documented times this year, and I hope that’s proof that we’re powering through the madness and accomplishing some good.
So Santa, if you have it in your heart to put me on your good list this season, could you please for the love of God grant us with at least another 142 non-asshole moments next year- I’d be really grateful for that. And, if you can take every last bit of Frozen paraphernalia away with you, including the ill-fitting underwear, when you come on Christmas Eve for my children, that would be great, too.
Until next year,
Whitney
