The United Kingdom
I hope you’re ok.
It’s been quite a while since I last wrote to you hasn’t it?
Sorry about that. I’ve been a bit busy.
And I’m sorry I was REALLY cross at you for leaving me a Tiny Tears Doll when what I ACTUALLY asked for was a Cindy Doll. You must have been a bit preoccupied that year.
I’ve forgiven you…although it took a while.
Well, it’s all ‘go’ around here…the stores are frantically packing their Christmas produce up to the rafters ready for the frenzy of shoppers. The festive lights are getting switched on by Z list ‘celebs’ in towns near and far. Everyone’s planning what useless (and cheapest) token present they’re going to buy Great Auntie Doris (“not MORE talcum powder, for heaven’s sake! – that’ll set her asthma off when she’s stuffing her face with turkey and we’re NOT driving her to A&E again this year, it’s someone else’s turn, OK!”) AND, to top it all off, the crème de la crème of totally exciting things to EVER happen over Christmas is that the TV ad’s are YET AGAIN promising you a brand new half price sofa delivered right to your door before the 25th.
HOW UTTERLY SPLENDID!
(I’m being ironic there, btw)
I bet Santa, that if you reviewed all the letters I’ve sent to you over the years, you’d be able to track what was happening in my life at the time…
- The year of the Tiny Tears debacle – Now THAT was THE end of the world!
- The year of the chopper bike – tomboy phase
- The year of wanting my nose pierced – oh, the beloved punk years. My dad swiftly intercepted my letter to you that year…grrr!
- The year of the make-up and hair crimpers and fancy perfume – forget being a tomboy, I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!!!!!
- The year of the engagement ring – got the boyfriend. He’s a keeper.
- The year of the wedding – ahhh, roses around the door time
- The year of the baby…ah, now, hang on. That’s where it all went a bit pear shaped….
You see Santa, for years, the baby never came…so I gave up and just got on with my life.
But then she arrived!
And then many of my dreams fell apart a little.
But, whilst I’ve not contacted you for a while, I’ve been a really good girl this year – well, erm, OK, reasonably good (ish), I thought I’d write to you a little earlier than usual and just give you and your team up at the North Pole a bit of a ‘heads up’ about what I’d like this Christmas.
So Santa, here’s my wish list for this year:
- I want this bloody cruel syndrome to go away. Go RIGHT away and never, EVER come back (sorry for swearing Santa, but I just can’t help myself)
- I want Hannah to be able to talk and tell me how her day has been or what’s bothering her or what she enjoyed doing with her friends at school or what she’d like you to bring her for Christmas.
- I want her to stop biting/self-harming/throwing herself backwards when I’m carrying her and all the other dangerous stuff
- I want her to pick a flower (or a weed, I’m not fussy) and say “this is for you, mummy”
- I want people to stop assuming that they have even the slightest inkling of what our life is REALLY like and how we feel
- I want her to be able to read so that we can sit together, snuggled on the sofa, surrounded by books galore and jump into magical, enchanting worlds together
- I want to be able to walk with her so that we can go exploring in rock pools and forests
- I want her to be able to creep into our bed on Christmas morning and whisper “he’s been!” (That’s you Santa, not the milkman, obviously!) and then watch her excitedly open her presents – the presents that SHE decided that she wanted
- I want to be able to take her to the cinema or for afternoon tea in some swanky tea house
- I want her to be able to climb trees or run around giddily kicking fallen leaves or splash in puddles until she has rosy red cheeks and gets out of breath
- I want to watch her rummaging around her dressing up box contemplating who she wants to be – whether it be a princess, a nurse, a Jedi Knight or a Lucha Libre (it’s OK, we’re not gender specific in our house) – she could be whoever she wants to be.
- I want to scratch my head, utterly dismayed, whilst trawling the internet in a desperate quest for the answers to her homework questions
- I want to schlep around the supermarket in my pyjamas at some ungodly hour, grumbling and swearing profusely under my breath, because she’s only just informed me that her cookery class is tomorrow and she needs some ridiculously obscure ingredients that you can probably only get online from some faraway exotic country
- I want to make snow angels with her
- I want her to be able to concentrate on task, to listen and to know how to keep herself safe
- I want to be sat in the audience of the School Nativity with all the other parents and proudly (and undoubtedly teary) watch in awe at my child, front of stage, dressed as an Angel reciting her script
- I want her to look me up and down, her face aghast and tell me in a stern voice “Mummy, you are NOT going out with ME looking like THAT…go upstairs immediately and get changed”
- I want my heart to JUST. STOP. ACHING.
I want ALL that and SO much more Santa. But I suppose It’s probably a bit too much of a big ask for you, isn’t it?
You can’t make any of that happen…and you certainly can’t buy it in the shops either.
So, given that I don’t need a half price sofa, I’ll gladly make do with my kid just being happy and as healthy as she can be…. Yes, I’ll make do with that. For now, at least.
Oh, but if you could just slip the winning numbers for the lottery in my Christmas stocking or maybe an Aston Martin…Oooh, and perhaps a pair of killer Louboutins? – I know I don’t go out much, but at least I’d look pretty hot doing the washing up!.
Thanking you in anticipation.
p.s. Dear Santa – Part 2 coming soon (hopefully!)
This post is dedicated to Santa (of course, who else?) who has the ability to make little people’s dreams come true, but sadly, not mine.
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