Dear Santa Claus,
How are you? Still jolly? I know, long time no see.
Things have been busy at our house, with our 2-month-old son giving us as much as we can handle. It’s been a year full of blessings, and we know we’re exceedingly lucky to have a healthy baby, a healthy mom and a roof over our heads.
But since you’ll be in the neighborhood pretty soon, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to share our wish list with you. Granted, you can’t exactly put some of these things under the tree, but they are what we — as new parents — really would like this holiday season. I’ve been good, promise.
My keys: I can’t find them. I know they’re here because I unlocked the door to get inside. I had the car seat in one arm, the diaper bag in the other, and my wife was behind me with the groceries. They must be somewhere. They’re not in the diaper bag — I checked. Did I check? I’m pretty sure I checked. I’ll check again.
Dinner: We’re not picky. Just bring something. Anything. Stale taco shells. A box of smooshed Ritz Crackers. Reindeer kibble. A chunk of hardtack given to you by an old sailor. A week-old gas station churro. Salad dressing by itself. We’re exhausted and don’t want to cook. We’ll be happy with whatever is in the sleigh.
(And while you’re dropping off dinner, can you fix everything that’s broken in our house, do our laundry and apologize to our neighbors about the noise?)
Countdown clock: We would love to know how long we have until our son wakes up, needs a diaper change or generally requires parental attention. Do you have anything in the workshop that fits the bill? Because holey moley, if a clock could tell me my son will be asleep for another 14 minutes guaranteed, I could plow through a bowl of ice cream (see also: dinner, above) and return some e-mails with enough time left over for a 90-second power nap, no problem.
Keys, keys, keys, keys. Still looking for them. They weren’t in the diaper bag. I’m trying to leave the house for work, and they’re somewhat necessary. If you can expedite this one, I would appreciate it.
Turn all traffic lights green. If we’re in the car, we are likely running late or trying to soothe a fussy baby with a trip around the block. As you can imagine, all this stop-and-go isn’t helping.
That button that ambulances have to change lights to green — is that real? Can we borrow that? I promise we’ll use it only when the baby is in the car. Or if we’re going to pick up the baby. Or if “Danger Zone” comes on the radio.
A good book. Sure, I won’t read it. I doubt it’ll even make it to the bookshelf. But it’s the dream of finding uninterrupted time to read that you’re giving me. The hope that I’ll soon get a chance to lay back on the couch in a quiet house, fully absorbed in a story of plucky teens caught up in a world gone mad. That sounds nice.
Thanks for your consideration, Santa, and also for all the wonder and magic and other stuff too. Really, we’re big fans.
(Now, sorry to be a nag, but I could really use some help finding my keys. I’m already late, and I’ve looked everywhere — well, almost everywhere. I haven’t looked in the door yet. There’s no way I left them in the door again. I absolutely, 100 percent guarantee I did not leave my keys in the door.
Wait. Yep, there they are. Right in the door where I left them. Twelve hours ago.
Now, if I can only find my cell phone, I can be on my way.)
Bobby McMahon is a new father and writer living near Washington D.C. He tweets @BobFrankPat.
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