Amy Grant, Carly Simon, Kelly Clarkson, and about a quatrillion other artists have recorded a song by this name, a sweet-but-boring plea that Santa make sure “wars would never start, and time would heal all hearts” and other meaningful requests.
But I’m asking The Big Guy for more practical things.
The past six months my dear husband has devoted most of his Saturdays to transforming our dirty, dark attic into an airy, bright master bedroom AND NEW OFFICE FOR ME which I’m unable to write about without the yelling, sorry. He did almost all of it by himself—framing, insulation, sheetrock, spackling, running electric, creating sliding wainscoting panels to provide storage, building a DOOR for heaven’s sake….he’s the rock star of rock stars, and yes there will be pictures soon. But the last steps before a January move-in are painting the walls and putting down some carpet…and buying me a desk and buying both of us some shelves….and finding a split queen bed that we can get up the narrow staircase…..and then my car needs new tires before we do the 20 hour round-trip drive to Ohio….so we agreed not to get each other presents this year and just get the room done already. Because MY NEW OFFICE! And the boring tires.
But that’s not to say I’d turn down anything else. So Santa, if you’re listening, here’s what I want this year.
—one meal in which no one: knocks over a half-full glass of diet Sprite; uses her arm as a napkin; stares blankly into space after being asked, “What did you learn today?”; sets the table with six spoons and no knives; eats 11 pieces of bread and no vegetables; tells a sibling he is not doing his share to clean up
—a new loaf of whole wheat bread to replace the one Nikki grabbed off the counter when we weren’t looking last night and then threw up on the driveway this morning
—for Nina to voluntarily read a book
—for someone, anyone, but me to turn off the hallway light six times a day
—to hit the high soprano notes I could sing in college
—my own closet
—a week at the beach a week at the beach a week at the beach please please please a week at the beach
—a can opener that doesn’t make me want to use profanity
vintage really old iPod to sync with the latest version of iTunes on my beloved even older laptop
—a new laptop
—The ability to pull two things out of my kitchen pantry without it resembling the avalanche scene from “Planet Earth”
—12 hours of sleep