A Mother's Grown-Up Christmas List

Dear Santa,
I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my dotor and sold 62 cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my Christmas list over several years, 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 if I'll find any more free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my wishes: I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (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.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the 7th month of my last pregnancy. If you're hauling big-ticket items this year, I'd like fingerprint-resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music, and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes, Mommy," to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three jean skirts that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room" and "Take your hands off your sister," because my voice seems to be just out of my chilren's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would also be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payments as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

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

Yours always, Mom

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to always believe in Santa.

*this came out of Dr. Laura's In Praise of Stay-at-Home-Moms book.