Dear Santa,
I am writing this on behalf of my children that you would spare them my punishment for being an extremely naughty lady. Though I hate the term naughty and it makes me feel a little slutty, that’s the term you use. So I am rolling with it. I don’t even have time to be slutty. My lingerie drawer consists of my husbands old sweatpants and my Dad’s Carolina sweatshirt he gave me when we got married. If that doesn’t scream sexy I don’t know what does.
It’s no wonder I am so fertile with those threads.
Since I’ve been lying to them about you, I figured you could cut me a break this year. I usually give you all the fame, which is cool. But the deal is that I’ve been a bad mom this year. In fact, my seven year old is watching my baby so I could sit here for ten minutes and type this out just to feel sane.
Which is fine, she’s a better caretaker than I am. She remembers her vitamins and is always the one that catches me in the middle of a curse word. I’ve had to say I’m sorry to her more times than I can count, because she is more mature than I am.
Since I am on the naughty list, I don’t expect much. I feel the need to confess how I’ve lived my life lately, it isn’t pretty. I do really mean not pretty, I haven’t been pretty since baby number three. Now I am a busted can of biscuits just waiting to be baked in a hot tub of wine because my body aches in places I didn’t know I had. That sounds like communion. It is because I am so holy in this season of my life where I barely can hear myself think, much less get on Jesus’s wave length. I have to go up on my rooftop, light candles and hope a baby doesn’t wake up before I hit verse 3. OF GENESIS.
I’ve been studying Genesis for three years. It’s going well and I am learning so much.
Getting ready to teach a class on what I’ve learned actually, Santa. But I’ve put it off because of all the Holidays coming up and all the food I have to bake. Maybe next year. Also I don’t get any sleep at night because my baby has to be actually SOAKED INTO MY BODY LIKE BUTTER ON BREAD.
I feel like you’re pretty tight with Jesus, so if you could tell him I love him and have been sending smoke signals for years now.
( kidding. yall. )
I practice fake patience with my children daily, you know what I mean. That fake I want to run away smile with a side of a little kiss on the cheek. I really love my children, but there are some days I am not sure I was made for this life. So I smile, and prepare dinner with two children on my legs and one on my breast. While making chicken breast. It’s ironic yet horrifying at the same time.
I’ve determined that I am a mediocre adult with special hidden talents such as, skipping pages of a 123 page bedtime story while making up the story and looking at the clock wondering if I have enough time to shower before I fall asleep… I can breastfeed and pick up toys with my toes at the same time. I’ve been known to pick up a grain of rice with the baby in the Ergo.
I can cry about my day of my five year old acting like a small rabid puppy in the car rider line, and no one will ever know because of my fashionable sunglasses. That’s TALENT. That’s also called hiding, which I am famous for when the dog pukes in the house. I miraculously am consoling a teething baby so that my husband can clean that ish up.
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My mini van is in no way an impression or mirror image of my actual home. My Mini van is our vacation spot , really. There are enough snacks to last a week if need be. Luckily my children only like preservative filled crap, so no worries on the spoiling. Nope! Fresh goldfish for everyone.
There are most likely Chick Fila chicken nuggets, enough for a Thanksgiving feast. That’s actually what I signed up to bring for this Thursday. I even have the specialty sauces on hand and a few spare fries that made their way into my van by tiny, greasy fingers.
And Santa, if I am late to said gatherings of the Holiday nature, please note that it isn’t my fault. I have children that take their sweet time to look presentable, while I look like a walking dead extra. That is my specialty. I don’t want to upstage anyone. It’s my pleasure to look decomposed.
Santa, being a Mom is my greatest adventure and my greatest journey to feeling peace that I’ve ever been on.
Be kind to them this Christmas. I’ll just be here praising you for all the presents I wrap at 3 am.
If you could possibly drop me a box of cheap wine down the chimney, I would be much grateful. It can even be the Aldi brand. I don’t discriminate. I see all wine as equal value until it proves me wrong. Which basically never happens. Because 4 children.
Merry Christmas!
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