Devin's letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned, cuddled, and breastfed my children on demand. I have wiped dirty bottoms, cleaned up tinkle spots and scooped up vomit in every room of this house. I have visited the doctor's office more than my doctor and have lovingly accepted snotty, crust-covered kisses for years.

I'm not bragging or asking for sympathy, but 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 any more free time in the next 18 years with my sixth baby now on the way.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache or swell (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store or the toy aisle at Target while still pushing my cart.

I'd like x-ray vision to see through locked bedroom doors and the ability to replicate myself so I could ride, unnoticed, in the back of my teenage daughter's car.

I'd like my own bath tub void of rockets and boats, and toothpaste that doesn't taste like bubble gum.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the fourth month of this pregnancy. (Oh, but could I keep these breasts? Surely I deserve that.)

If you're hauling big ticket items this year, I'd like a car that automatically places and buckles my children safely and efficiently into their car seats and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals or animated vegetables; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide while I eat my contraband chocolate and talk, uninterrupted, on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes, Mommy" to boost my parental confidence, along with five kids who don't fight, pick their noses or tinkle on the toilet seat.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room or take your sippy cup in there" and "Take your hands off your brother (or sister, as the situation requires)," because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to go to the bathroom (ALONE!), brush my teeth and brush my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature and be able to sit as I eat it.

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 or Pop Tarts a good protein source? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house a little as the sound of my own whining is getting to us all.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my youngest son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back.

Have a safe trip. Help yourself to the cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on my carpet.

Yours Always,
Devin

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all of my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa (and require they give me plenty of kisses on demand...I'll even take the snotty, crust-covered ones.)