Dear Santa, I Can Explain…

Dear Santa,

Look, I’m sorry I took your name in vain. (That is you I’m supposed to avoid doing that with, right?) Anyway, this isn’t even a real blog post. This is a Monday.

I am supposed to be engaging in battle with my arch nemesis – laundry. I swore tonight would be the night I conquered the Pile (otherwise I may be wearing a bridesmaid dress to work tomorrow). And possibly the night I put away dishes. Which, by the way all-knowing physics law-breaker, would you please explain to me how two tiny people who refuse to use utensils or plates can necessitate the need for a dishwasher to run 24/7?

“Necessity is the motherhood of invention”? That’s a load of hooey – Motherhood is the necessity of invention. (Like a pooper scooper for toddlers.)

The muppets have been extra good this year. Ok, today.

I mean, that bright red spot on Destroy’s forehead wasn’t even from an incident report today – it was from the Chiquita banana sticker that got stuck because apparently the banana makers are using more glue on their labels these days. (Don’t ask, but I’m pretty sure there was some Carmen Miranda cha-chaing going on in preschool.) And Search didn’t bite anyone. Granted, he tried – but he was thwarted. So that shouldn’t go on his permanent record.

Also, I know that LED-penguin isn’t a punching bag. But seriously – he had it coming. It’s not like it was one of your reindeer…(Again, very sorry for eating the nose off that elf back when I was a kid. In my defense, it was a peppermint)

Really, I was trying to teach my children about the magic of Christmas and the big fat man that squeezes himself down a fiery chimney (except apparently in apartments where I’m guessing you just use the door?) to give good little boys and girls toys – so toddlers can revel in the wrapping paper. Sorry, that was mean. Jolly old St. Nick. I mean Jolly middle-aged St. Nick? Oh hell, Kriss who are we kidding – your belly is bigger than Destroy’s.

Red circle-y bath toy magnet thing and green circle-y bath toy magnet thing… Christmas colors.

“Search! Stop trying to magnetize your brother! Destroy! Sit down on your bottom in the bathtub!”

Apparently I am raising X-Men. I guess that’s what I get for naming my kid Destroy. (Yeah, yeah, NERD ALERT.) Although, come to think of it, any of your workshop minions make Marvel toys? You’ve got to admit, a toy Destroy/Wolverine would be pretty cool. Sorry, I digress.

Then he pooped in the tub. So really, he had a great reason for not sitting on his bottom in the water. He was busy soiling it. And I had to PICK. IT. UP. (That’s got to be worth a book deal in my stocking this year.)

So I now need to add bathroom cleaning to my list of evening chores. I HATE cleaning the bathroom. It’s why I hired a housekeeper in the first place. (It’s cheaper than marriage counseling.) But I can’t get the singing octopus to shut up! I’m pretty sure the sing-songy chant of “Can you find the crab? Press the RED button” is code for “Ha! Sucks to be you!”

I scooped them out of the tub as fast as I could, deposited them in the living room and scrubbed my hands with scalding water and soap until they were raw and red. (Like Rudolph’s nose!) Yes, as a mother to two roaming dirtballs, I have grown quite accustomed to various bodily functions. But I still don’t want to PICK. IT. UP. Ew ew ew.

Bet you can guess what happened next. I dropped the diapers behind the couch. (Ok, maybe you didn’t guess that part. But you know when I’m awake and you know when I’ve been sleeping – kind of stalkerish creepy don’t you think? It’s a good thing you’ve got really good taste in gifts.) By the time I finally fished the diapers back up, Destroy had peed all over his brother. That shouldn’t count for the naughty list – you must know what happens to little naked boys in the cool crisp fresh undiapered air.

And of course, I couldn’t do another bath since I hadn’t cleaned all the poop up yet. Do you face this issue with your elves at all? They’re probably muppet-sized. Oh, I’m sorry, that was rude.

When I finally wrangled the muppets to get the diapers on their goosebumped bottoms, the sticky side strap snapped like a rubber band – causing the diaper to ricochet across the living room. You can’t make this up!

Oh right! My Christmas list. Like I said, real sorry about all that other stuff I did that likely pissed you off and please no more “prizes” in the tub.

Love,
Tricia

PS. I’ll see what I can do about not burning your cookies this year. And also, it’s not my fault you mistook the bottle of breast milk as an offering last year – it was labeled.