Dear Santa:

Dear Santa,

Hi there.  How are things up at the North Pole?  I hope unemployment is down at the Claus Compound and, as such, that this Christmas finds you handing your elves fewer pink slips than last. I imagine it's hard to find work as an elf; those Keebler guys have the cookie market cornered and now, with the popularity of the Elf on a Shelf, there's competition from the doll industry.  Tough times. 

Before I get to what I want for Christmas, I would like to point out that I have been really good this year.  Seriously, I don't know if you've noticed, but today is December 20th and my Christmas cards have been mailed, my wrapping is done, and my tree HASN'T EVEN FALLEN DOWN ONCE.

Well, not yet anyway.


I get my teeth cleaned every six months, get felt up by the OBGYN once a year, and use a moisturizer with SPF 15.  EVERY DAY.


Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to direct your attention to the following:  my driving record (clean), my voting record (active), and my criminal record (non-existent). 
 
Not bad, right? 

So I think you'll be happy to know that I only want one thing for Christmas this year.

A wife.

Hear me out on this one, S.C.  This isn't some kind of polygamous fantasy, I don't want a Barb or a Margene, and GOD KNOWS I don't need a Nikki.  Besides, I took a quiz in last month's Glamour and it turns out my face is WAY too round to pull off the French-braid-with-the-Bump-Itz-pouf. 

Nor is this some kinky sex thing.  Although, really Santa, let's get honest for a second here, even if it WAS, you're not really in a position to judge.  You spend a good deal of time with small children in your lap while the world turns a blind eye to that whole he-sees-you-when-you're-sleeping-he-knows-when-you're-awake-he-knows-if-you've-been-bad-or-good thing.  If you think about it, you're sort of like the MacDaddy of Creepers.  And we all  know it's just you and Mrs. Claus and all those elves isolated up there in the North Pole, where it stays cold and dark for like DAYS on end.  I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just saying.  People talk.  Not me.  But people.

Also, The Wife is also not a replacement for The Husband.  I would very much like to keep him.

Really, The Wife is just there so that, in my absence, things will get done the way I do them rather than in some other husband-like way which invariably leaves me with more work than I started with.  For example, if I go out on a Thursday night, Wife would be here to keep everyone in line.  The dishes would be done, bedtime would start and finish on time, the downstairs would be picked up, and no one would have walked around the house eating something seriously crumb-producing, like pretzel rods or crackers, without a bowl or plate or napkin or FOR GOD'S SAKE, SOMETHING! to catch ALL OF THOSE CRUMBS. 

Wife will not put up a philosophical argument about the suitability of ice-cream, candy, or potato chips at 8 a.m.  She will always have tissues, she'll be aware of the clock so as to avoid giving the boys donuts for a snack 45 minutes before dinner is ready, and she will always know the location of each child's hat, gloves, and shoes. 

Now, if she could also clean the bathroom and do laundry , that would be SO awesome, but I realize I'm probably pushing my luck.

Oh, one more thing.  I sort of need her to be on the less-attractive side.  Unfortunate facial hair, adult-onset acne, goiters:  all welcome here.

Because, like I said, I'd like to keep The Husband.

So that's it, Santa.  One wife.  I'm sure you can fit her in the sleigh.

She'll be the one sitting next to you controlling the radio and telling you YOU NEED TO SLOW DOWN!

Thanks a lot, Santa.

Love, Jenn   

Are you there, Oprah? It's me, Jenn.

I'm not really a big Oprah fan. But a few weeks ago I was home sick in bed and happened to catch her Favorite Things episode.  In case you don't worship at the Altar of Oprah, this is the episode where she gives away all kinds of really expensive stuff:  cashmere sweaters, diamond earrings, trips, fancy chocolates that cost more than my monthly mortgage payment. 

You know, all the essentials for the holiday season.

Oh yeah, and the audience pretty much goes apeshit crazy.

Like, with all forms of crying and screaming and jumping and 'Oh my God'-ing for the camera.

Just in case you haven't yet been beaten over the head with the message that Oprah is a kind and benevolent god, the show's producers cut to these audience freak-outs repeatedly to make sure you REALLY get it:

Hey!  You there, at home in your yoga pants that you don't wear out of the house because of the unfortunate seam up the front that makes it look like you have camel toe, even though you totally DO NOT, are you getting just how generous and awesome Oprah is?  Because I don't think you are.  See that lady in the second row, the one with the applique reindeer on her sweater and JC Penney elastic high-waisted pants who has just fallen to her knees in praise, THAT lady just scored a pair of $375 skinny  jeans from Jay-Z's new clothing line.  She is seriously psyched and her life is 125% BETTER now because Oprah has touched it.  Avert your eyes when Oprah appears before you! 


So there I was, in bed burning not just with a strep-throat-induced fever, but also with a raging contempt for Oprah.

What-the-eff-ever, Oprah! With all your fancy crap that regular people can't go out and buy! A $300 cashmere sweater would be on my favorite things list too if I didn't know that I could get like 25 pairs of pants at Target for that much money!  Oh my God, I need a Fribble!

There was, however, a time when I didn't feel quite so negatively toward Oprah and her favorite things.

Of course, I was pregnant then.

And, as such, under the influence of some SERIOUS hormones.

Also, I was on bed rest.  Which meant that, besides the mail delivery, Oprah had become the high point of my day.

Oh, and did I mention that the audience was filled with teachers?

Wanna guess what I had been doing for work up until the night I went to the hospital for contractions at 26 weeks?


That's right, I was a teacher.

It was like the Perfect Storm of hormonal breakdowns.

There I was, all round and pregnant and happy, with a nice big cup of hot chocolate, ready to sit and enjoy Oprah's Favorite Things episode.

Within the first minute and a half of the show, I was crying.

Oh my God, look at all of those women.  They are just SO HAPPY!  They are literally jumping for joy and hugging total strangers in their happy little bubble of delirium.  This is the most beautiful thing I ever seen in my whole life.  I love Oprah and I love all of those happy women. 

And then Oprah started the giving-away part of the show.  She held up some random item, made sure to let everyone know how much it was worth, and then told the audience, "You're all getting one!"  The women then jumped and cheered and screamed.  And cried.

And each time they cried, I cried.

Oh my God, Oprah is the nicest person ever; look how happy everyone is that they just got a $500 waffle maker.  They all love waffles so much, they are SO happy for waffles, and I am SO happy for them that they can make waffles for their families now.  What did they even DO before they had a waffle maker?  How did they get their waffles?  They didn't, not until Oprah came along and blessed them with their new incredible waffle makers.  I love Oprah and waffles and waffle-maker-factory workers and this is the best show ever, I feel myself changing because of this show; I am so totally changed now and I want to give everyone I know a waffle maker RIGHT NOW and then I want to eat a really ridiculous amount of waffles. 

This is not even an exaggeration.  My friend Erin can attest to all of this, because I e-mailed her repeatedly during the episode to share my joy. 

I cried through the entire hour-long show. 

It was weeks before I could even TALK about the episode without choking up.

That is, until the day early in January when the recycling truck took away our Christmas tree. I stood in my window and cried; it was a good Christmas tree and I had loved it, even if Santa hadn't left any of Oprah's Favorite Things under it.

And so I honored it. 

By eating a really ridiculous amount of waffles. 

 

Hey Baby, Can I Sweep Your Chimney?

Disney World really is a place where you revert to childhood, even if you are a grown woman visiting with your husband and children. 

Case in point?  I was there last week and found myself unreasonably excited when Cinderella's Fairy Godmother winked at me during the parade.  I was almost teary when the final float came by, adorned with Aurora, Belle, Arielle, Snow White, and the mac daddy of all princesses, Cinderelly herself. 

However, the character I was most excited to see standing up there was not actually a princess, but a nanny. 

Because I WANT TO BE MARY POPPINS.

Now, I don't want to take on the whole nanny aspect of the Mary Poppins persona.  I've got my hands full with my own family, I don't need to be taking care of everyone else's children and dealing with pompous, obnoxious fathers and flighty suffragette mothers.  Oh no.  In fact, I probably would have punched George Banks in the mouth and then the Constable would have come and dragged me off to jail, the Sister Suffragettes singing along behind me and Bert and his chimney-sweep buddies cheering me along.  Good times, but not really a great example for a nanny to set for her charges. 

However, there are plenty of other reasons for wanting to be Mary Poppins over some of the Disney princesses.

For starters, look at her mode of transportation:  flying umbrella.  Think how convenient that whole floating thing could be.  Traffic in the town's center going to make me late to pick my son up from preschool?  No problem; I've got my trusty umbrella in the back.  Pull the car over, open the umbrella, and off I go, waving to the other motorists and yelling out, "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, suckers!"

Flying umbrella beats a coach made out of a pumpkin ANY DAY. 

Seriously, have you smelled the inside of a pumpkin? 

Cinderella must have looked DAMN good in that dress (we're talking Spanx and Miracle bras here...bippity boppity boobs, people) if she still managed to turn Prince Charming's head while smelling like stringy pumpkin goo.  Of course, Prince Charming obviously had a major foot fetish and she had those freakishly tiny feet, so it was probably just a matter of time before those two connected through a Craigslist ad.

But I digress.

Take a look at who Mary Poppins hangs with:  Bert.  Bert is a dude who TRAVELS WITH HIS OWN BAND ON HIS BACK.  He is literally a walking good time.  He's always happy and you can't really understand what he's saying; clearly he's got a flask of something good hidden under that cap of his.  He's not super hard-core on the party scene though; he spends his time on the rooftops of London, so he can't get TOO tipsy.  He parties only enough to know how to keep things fun. 

I mean, the guy leaps in and out of chalk drawings, for Christ's sake. 

Forget all those singing and dancing animals and candelabras; Bert's the kind of sidekick I want . 

Of course, there's also this unspoken kind of understanding that SOMETHING went down between the two of them long before they reunited at 17 Cherry Tree Lane.

You just KNOW he's swept her chimney.

And good for them for moving past it and being able to stay friends.

Then there is the bag:  Mary Poppins pulls a friggin' LAMP out of her purse. 

A LAMP.

I thought I was the master of packing my diaper bag when my kids were younger, but MAN what I could do with a bag that can hold a lamp. 

Although I imagine it's a bitch to find your keys in.

But the best reason of all to be Mary Poppins? 

OH MY GOD have you seen the woman clean?  Mary Poppins snaps her fingers and the clothes fold themselves. 

And then?  They put themselves away. 

Tired of stepping on the never-ending string of Legos that always manage to be strewn through every room in the house?  Mary Poppins could snap her fingers and they would all jump together into the form of a rocket and then FLY themselves into the toy box.  When you're Mary Poppins, all you do is snap your fingers and sing a happy song.  Her song of choice was "A Spoonful of Sugar".  I don't know what kind of sugar she's hitting a spoonful of, but I'll take it. 

And I'd call it a spoonful of Awesomesauce.

10 Lies All Parents Fall For

10.  PULL-UPS   Every parent has been there; you look at the package and think, "I can totally fool my child into thinking this is underwear AND save myself from doing 27 loads of laundry a day."  You even buy the ones that have Lightning McQueen on them and sell them to your child with the notion that "Lighting McQueen doesn't want to get wet and HE WILL DISAPPEAR if you pee on him" with all kinds of mock horror at the very thought, even though you'd like nothing more since you have so much Lightning McQueen paraphernalia that you're pretty sure you personally paid for one of Owen Wilson's stints in rehab. Or at least the blow that got him there.  But your child doesn't care that Lighting McQueen will disappear if he pees in his pull-up because he thinks it's fun to pee in his pull-up; it means he doesn't have to leave the train table.  Leaving the train table means his brother will steal his train and what's waiting for him in the bathroom?  A sticker.  TRAIN TRUMPS STICKER.  And that's why pull-ups fail.

9.  SOCCER   Christ Almighty, enough with the soccer already.  Want to get your ass reported to Child Protective Services?  Tell another parent at the preschool pickup that your kid isn't enrolled in soccer and watch her face contort as she tries to mask her contempt for your obviously inferior parenting.  Resist the urge to poke her in the eye. 

8.  EVERY KID NEEDS A DOG   Ummm, yeah.  Not my kids.  Want to know why?  Because they live with me.  And as my dad so eloquently put it recently, "You're not really an animal person."  Spot on, Dad.  We're fish people.  And so far we've only had to flush one. 

7.  CONTRACTIONS FEEL LIKE REALLY BAD CRAMPS   Okay, I don't know what kind of fucked up, crazy-ass period cramps you people get, but if they are really akin to the feeling of every muscle from just below your boobs all the way down to your knees tightening like a vice grip for a full minute in 90-second intervals as your body ATTEMPTS TO EXPEL A HUMAN, you might want to seek some medical attention and get that shit checked out. 

6.  HAVING A CHILD WILL BRING YOU CLOSER TO YOUR SPOUSE   I don't even remember what my husband looks like.  I think he still lives here.  Maybe.

5.  GOOD MOTHERS DON'T ____________ .   Take your pick: swear, smoke, drink, fuck, work, stay home, circumcise, formula feed, co-sleep, forget to floss, want to run away sometimes.  What's your hangup?

4.  YOU WILL FORGET THE PAIN OF CHILDBIRTH   *coughcough*BULLSHIT*coughcough*   'Nuff said.

3.  BABY TOYS   Want to entertain a baby?  Turn on a light.  That is fascinating stuff to the 10 month-and-under crowd.  Want to really blow their minds?  Turn the light off.  And then turn it on again.  The best thing about this is that babies don't remember much, so tomorrow it will be a whole new amazing experience.  Think that's a good time?  Wait until summer when you turn on the CEILING FAN.  WHOA.

2.  MOTHER KNOWS BEST   This one is only a partial lie.  Because when it comes to things like picking out clothes that match, singing lullabies, or ensuring that, before we leave the house, we are adequately prepared for any possible calamity that could affect our children ever, I'm definitely the one you want running the show.  But there are many times when I have to defer to my husband and his wealth of knowledge of All Things Male Related.  This, so far, has included peeing standing up, purchasing a cup for the Little Leaguer (you're welcome, future grandchildren), and basically all things penis or sports related, since my athletic history consists of picking flowers and doing cartwheels in the outfield during kickball.  And I don't have a penis.  But definitely call me when you need a necklace made out of dandelions. 

1.  YOUR CHILD NEEDS A SIBLING    Oh my god, this is the worst lie of all.  Having only one child is viewed as a serious crime against nature in our society.  Don't you want your son/daughter to have a brother/sister?  A playmate?  A best friend?  HA.  I fell for this one hook, line, and sinker.  It's not by accident that my sons are 19 months apart.  Why?  Because we wanted them to be close.  I had visions of them taking off to play together, leaving me to sip my coffee, maybe read a book, putting it down every now and then to go take a look at whatever incredible block structure they had created.  What I didn't imagine was the constant bickering, the 'I had it first', the 'he got a longer turn/bigger piece/more', the 'it's mine and even though I haven't played with it in seven months, I was just about to', the 'you know that game you always want to play and I always say no simply because I know how much you love it...I'm going to hide all of the pieces under my bed JUST BECAUSE.'  I'm not a mother, I'm a referee.  Lucky for me, I happen to love black and white.

These are the people in your neighborhood

There is a gorgeous tree across the street, a harsh fiery streak of red amongst a sea of dry, dulling greens and washed out yellowish browns.  A narrow strip of sun slices through the early morning shadows to fall directly on the flaming tones. 

It's breathtaking.

And I'd totally take a picture to show you, except that between my window and the tree-of-such-beauty-that-ohmygod-it-would-change-your-life, dangle The Bucket People's unmentionables.

I see London, I see France, I see my neighbors' underpants.  Right there on the clothesline. 

Apparently the men in the house enjoy boxers AND briefs, while Mama Bucket rocks the grannies. 

All of which is WAY more information about my neighbors than I ever cared to possess. 

I should probably stop referring to them as The Buckets, now that I have two little sets of ears that like to listen to, and then repeat, lots of fun things that I say.  But we've been calling them The Bucket People for nine years now, since we moved in and found them dealing buckets from their side yard, complete with a hand painted sign attached to the fence that read, "Buckets: $.50".  Their yard was littered with white plastic buckets.

Here a bucket, there a bucket, everywhere a bucket-bucket. 

It would seem, however, that the bucket business is not a lucrative one.

Because one day, a big truck came and took all of the buckets away.

Which meant The Bucket People could then fill their yard with even yet still more crap.

Crap such as:  non-working snow blowers (4), old lawn mowers (2), tires (oodles), discarded lawn furniture, tarps (which, by the way, don't actually cover anything; they're just random blue tarps tossed here and there), rusty bikes (4), a Little Tykes basketball hoop, and assorted cuts of lumber.

And of course, I can't forget the prerequisite broken down car in the driveway (which my 5 year old thinks is a race car and therefore the most awesome thing EVER).

It's black.  It looks a lot like this:

Except it's all rusty and dirty and old.

And with the engine less IN the car and more NEXT TO it.

Also, they have a go-kart.  Which doesn't actually go.

So I was super-psyched this summer when The Buckets added a new mode of transportation to their collection of Shit That Is Supposed to Go But Doesn't.  The eldest Bucket Boy (a.k.a Carrot, so named by my oldest son who was unable to properly pronounce his actual name, Derek) bought himself a boat.

Guess where it is?

You got it.

Because, really, why put a boat in the water when you have perfectly good yard space available?

Everybody wants to be closer to free.

He had decided I looked like Jennifer Love Hewitt.

Which I sort of do, in that she has two arms and brown hair and I also have two arms and brown hair. 

But really, the resemblance ends there.

I think his name was Mike.  Or Ed.  He asked for my number and I gave it to him, thinking that I needed to be open to meeting All Kinds Of People.  I figured I had nothing to lose.  He was nice, he liked to read, and he had a job.  Why not?

"Jennifer Laaaaaane.  Jennifer Laaaaaaane HEW-IT" was how he greeted me when I met up with him at the bar.  Think Rob Schneider on SNL "makin' copies."

And THAT would be why not.

It wasn't that I had anything against Jennifer Love Hewitt.  It was her Party of Five character, Sarah, that I couldn't stand.

Because she was TOTALLY unworthy of Bailey Salinger's love.

I, on the other hand, was really very worthy.

Oh, Bailey.  Poor, orphaned Bailey.  I would have listened to ALL of your whining about your incredibly annoying sisters and hot brother.  And that other baby/kid, too.  I would have stayed by your side when you battled your alcoholism.  I would have Been There For You when Charlie had cancer.  I would have ALWAYS had faith in you, Bailey.  *cue a slow jam by The Cranberries*

I would have made you a seriously awesome mix tape, complete with my own (really bad) artwork.  I didn't hand out mix-tapes to any old boy, you know.  Not everyone was deemed worthy.  I put serious time and effort into the making of a mix tape, each song carefully selected for it's message, the balance of each side weighed out to give it just the right sound and feel.  The making of a good mix tape took hours to compile.  It would have been my very SOUL in music form, Bailey. 

I would have even written you a poem.  I was really good at writing really bad poetry.  Once I even wrote my boyfriend a sonnet.

Like with iambic pentameter.

And a RHYMING mothereffing COUPLET, yo. 

It was horrible.  And, in retrospect, hilarious.  And it could have been yours, if it wasn't for the Sarah-loving.

Also, the being pretend thing.  But THAT IS SO NOT THE POINT.   

I get that Sarah was cute and all that.  But honestly, didn't that doe-eyed, wholesome thing get annoying after a while?  And what the hell was wrong with the girls in your life, Bailey, that none of them could speak?  They would sputter and stammer, but between Julia, Claudia, and Sarah, I don't think you could have made a full sentence between them.  I, however, can speak in sentences that include a subject AND a predicate.


I would have been way more fun, Bay.  I would have told you dirty jokes and had Star Wars marathons with you.

Star Wars, dude.   WITH TOP GUN FOR DESSERT.

Whatever, Bailey.  You missed out.  Instead I was left to sit at a bar next to Ed.  Or Mike.

Jennifer Laaaaane.  Jennifer Laaaane HEW-IT.  Drinkin' the beers.  And losing Ed's number.

"All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise."

Once upon a time, a boy was growing inside of me.


This boy did not come to be easily. There were tears, there were questions, there were doubts. There were pills and classes and needles and nurses who held my hand while I shut my eyes tight against the glaring light of a cold, unfeeling room. Life was marked in days: day 3 bloods, day 7 bloods, day 10 bloods and ultrasound, day 12 ultrasound, day 14 bloods and ultrasound, lather, rinse, repeat. There were little pieces of plastic glaring their white blank stares back at me, thrown against the wall and then later dug out of the trash, pulled apart, and held up to the light of the window in a desperate search for some kind of sign.

Please, I offered up from my knees on the bathroom floor.

Please, I whispered while laying on the crinkly white paper of my doctor’s exam table.

Please, I begged silently while planting a soft kiss on the fuzzy head of my friend’s newborn.

Soon I stopped asking for a baby. I started asking, instead, for patience. For grace and acceptance. For forgiveness for whatever sin it was I had committed so heinous as to deny me the one thing I wanted more than anything. I looked to logic and science because emotion and soul were failing me.

And then he was there.

He was a small white flicker of a heartbeat on a grainy screen.

As he grew, I waited for the relief to sweep over me. But it didn’t come. I worried about all that I couldn’t see. Each time I visited the doctor I held my breath anxiously until I heard the reassuring heavy gallop of his heartbeat. I counted kicks. I thought about the umbilical cord and pushed words like knot out of my mind.

Please, I offered up in the middle of the night, rubbing my round belly.

Please, I whispered while standing in his empty, waiting nursery.

Please, I begged silently through three hours of pushing, please, little one. Please.

And then he was there.

As I rest his soft downy cheek against my own tear stained one, I closed my eyes, breathed him in, and offered up the only words I had left.


Thank you.