By: Debbie Farmer
I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned, and cuddled my two children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree in the school playground, and figured out how to attach nine patches onto my daughter's girl scout sash with staples and a glue gun.
I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmas', since I
had to write this one with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in
the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free
time in the next eighteen years.
Here are my Christmas wishes:
I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache after a day of chasing kids (in any
color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't flap in the
breeze, but are strong enough to carry a screaming toddler out of the candy aisle in the grocery store. I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.
If you're hauling big ticket items this year, I'd like a car with fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.
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