Remember me? You should. You saw my boobs last year, after all.
Now, in return, I have a couple of little favors to ask. Don’t worry. I don’t need any extravagant gifts. I’m not asking for small boxes filled with sparkly things or large suitcases filled with money. I just need…you.
The mere mention of your name is enough to stop a hard core tantrum in its tracks. The reminder, “Santa’s watching,” stops my naked daughter’s mad prancing and gets her to sit still long enough to get her pajamas on and zipped.
The threat, “do you want me to tell Santa you’re being naughty?” is pure magic. It works whether I want Tori to sit down and eat her dinner, cease waving her dirty diaper around or stop throwing things at the cat.
It even makes bedtime go smoother. And that? Is a miracle.
So here’s what I need. I need you to hop on down our chimney once a month, every month of the year. You don’t have to bring anything big. Heck, a little play dough would be enough to keep her happy.
It’s not the actual present that matters. It’s the idea of getting a present—or, more to the point, having said present being taken away.
And while you’re at it, can you sprinkle the world with some of that magic snow, or reindeer poop, or whatever it is you use and make the adults around me believe in you again?
Just think how much better we would all behave if we all thought someone was watching us all the time. I mean, sure, there’s God, but that threat is so old no one pays attention to it anymore.
After all, the Christian Right has already convinced the rest of us we’re going to hell simply for daring to believe that everyone deserves to be able to go to the doctor and kiss in public if they want to.
So what we need is you. We need a little Christmas magic 365 days a year. Do you think you could handle that?
Don’t worry. We’ll all pitch in to get the reindeer extra treats. And maybe even a little Jack Daniels for you.
Amber (the flashing mommy)
P.S. If you do want to bring me a suitcase full of money, I would gladly accept it. Just saying.