Dear Santa, It has been a long time since I wrote to you last. I assure you it’s not out of dissatisfaction. As an only child, I remember the load you dumped annually at our house. You probably doubled your
Dear Santa,
It has been a long time since I wrote to you last.
I assure you it’s not out of dissatisfaction. As an only child, I
remember the load you dumped annually at our house. You probably
doubled your mileage for the rest of the route.
Dear Santa,
It has been a long time since I wrote to you last.
I assure you it’s not out of dissatisfaction. As an only child, I remember the load you dumped annually at our house. You probably doubled your mileage for the rest of the route.
Our 3-year-old son, Sean, is the member of the household on your list now. But so far he just thinks you’re just some exotically dressed guy who lives in Kenosha (I have no idea why).
So I thought I could squeeze out one last letter. By next year he’ll be old enough to understand who you are and start up a correspondence of his own.
This isn’t a plea for a Blu-ray player or an Xbox Kinect or anything like that. Even on a journalist’s salary, I could eventually save up for that kind of stuff myself.
All I want for Christmas is energy. Just enough to keep up with my son after a long day at the office.
You must have found a reliable supplier, considering a long day at the office for you is handing out gifts to about a billion children over the course of a single night. Either that or the cumulative effect of all those cookies confers the ultimate sugar high.
Luckily you’ve got enough seniority to get away with sleeping in on Dec. 26. Or even sleeping through it.
I don’t have to tell you that there’s something energizing about being around children. Their enthusiasm cuts through our cynical adult natures and reminds us to enjoy the ride.
For normal adults pushing 40, though, the flesh is weak. It takes a superhuman strength to get through the last book of the night, while the kid bounces through the bedtime routine like a pinball. Even as the stomach flu leveled our entire family, the toddler was more struck by the fascinating new adventure of throwing up than the illness that was dragging Mommy and Daddy down.
Hopefully you don’t hold a grudge over those couple of years where I stopped believing in you while continuing to believe in Rudolph. Pre-teens can be a mess.
I don’t know if it’s within your jurisdiction to scrounge up this gift. Maybe I should’ve directed this to baby Jesus instead, but it seems like bad etiquette to ask him for stuff on his birthday.
Although the time has long since passed when you charted my naughtiness against my niceties, I can guarantee the gift of energy would make me a little nicer. For that, father and son would make the trip to Kenosha to thank you in person.
• Reporter Mike Moore writes Daddy Talk. His column can be found online at: www.journaltimes.com/mom.
