Dear Mrs. Claus

Dear Mrs. Claus,

In case you're wondering why I addressed this letter to you instead of Santa, I'm assuming the North Pole works much the same as the rest of the world, and that the wife gets the final say in the decision-making process.

I have tried my hardest to be a good wife and mother this year. I have wiped 142 runny noses, attended 73 baseball/soccer/football games, done 451 loads of laundry, prepared over 1000 meals/snacks/lunches, watched Disney movies in steady rotation, and cleaned the toilet more times than I care to count, among other things.

I would not be deserving of anything were I not to first ask for health, happiness, and prosperity for all my family and friends. I want everyone I love to have a great holiday and get everything on their list.

I've already spent a ridiculous amount of money on presents for my kids, so I don't have to worry about them on Christmas morning; besides, I'm sure your husband will be getting their long and detailed letters any day now. I've decided instead to make a few requests for myself.

To save us both a lot of time, you could simply leave a money tree, a fleet of nannies, and a magic, self-replenishing bottle of patience under the tree. However, I realize that's a bit unrealistic, so I'll give you a few more suggestions.

First, I'd like a pre-planned, delicious, nutritionally-balanced meal plan for all 365 days of the year. Breakfast and lunch menus are optional, but instructions for supper are in great demand. Please keep in mind that easy and fast is always preferred, and you're more than welcome to bring me any groceries required to prepare the recipes. Also, the fewer ingredients the better. I should also mention, this meal plan should cover all four members of my household: myself, the one who doesn't like chicken, the one with the seafood allergy, and the one who currently won't eat anything but Spongebob noodles and Lucky Charms. Good luck.

Secondly, even if only for 24 hours, since this is my last Christmas as a woman in my 20s, I'd like the body of a Brazillian super model, a one-week vacation to the tropics, a professional photographer, and about eight dozen rolls of film.

I'd also like the patent for a fabric that is soft and practical (like cotton), yet wipe-able (like vinyl). It also must be completely resistant to the following types of stains: grass, mustard, blood, greasy fingerprints, every type of paint, and Spongebob noodles.

Next, I'd like a mobile, ergonomically designed, multi-purpose capsule, for the purposes of completing tasks in the presence of my children which are, at the present time, pretty much impossible. This capsule would, ideally, be soundproof, to allow me to finally have a phone conversation without the constant plea, "MOM!" ringing in my ear. It might also include a "bathing feature", since my only times to shower in peace are the six or so minutes at the beginning of "Toy Story 2" and the moments immediately preceding my passing out from exhaustion at bedtime.

Speaking of bathrooms, not only could I use a giant bulls-eye painted at the bottom of the toilet bowl, but I'd also like a fingerprint-activated, password-protected shampoo dispenser, so my more-expensive-than-is-necessary-for-boys shampoo might last more than a week, and not be used as "look Mommy, bubbles".

Onto the kitchen; please, Mrs. Claus, if you have any mercy, you'll bring me a dishwasher. STAT. While you're at it, you might as well get me the Swiffer family again. It's not as if they won't need replacing soon, anyway.

If possible, I'd like you to rid the world of a few cartoon television programs, namely Caillou, The Mole Sisters, and Pokoyo. And, while I'm not suggesting anything violent, the world would be no worse off without those weird and annoying spandex people from Four Squared. Especially the one with the braces. I'm just saying.

As long as I'm pushing my luck, I also ask that you wave a wand of some sort to ensure I don't burn my Christmas turkey or drop a pie or something. Things like that tend to happen in this house.

Should you find my list to be a little too unreasonable, I'll settle for Colin Farrell in a big, red bow under the tree. I'm flexible like that.

Well, Mrs. Claus, I guess that's it for this year. I promise to leave some milk and cookies for Santa and a few carrots for the reindeer. There will be a package on the table addressed to you; it may be breakable and feel a lot like a case of wine, but you can assure Santa that it's just a harmless token of my appreciation for your help.

Merry Christmas