By Michelle Riddell
Dear Family,
Thank you all so very much for the Christmas gifts this year. Really, you’ve outdone yourselves. I am blown away by your attentive generosity and flattered that you know me well enough not to refer to the list I made you, again. I understand you needed it to spit your gum into, like you did with last year’s list. (I have no one to blame but myself for making that silly rule about no gum on the furniture.)
Anyway, I love each and every gift you so painstakingly selected. Between the three coupon booklets—hugs, chores you’ll never do, and carwashes—the camouflage work gloves, and the faux-alabaster watch purchased at your school’s Children’s Only Store that has already stopped working—or, as we like to say, is correct twice a day—this mom has never felt more loved.
What was I thinking when I asked for a new bathrobe? My old one is fine and, as the disgusting weirdo next door pointed out, it has holes in all the right places. I can safety-pin it together for now and keep my fingers crossed for my birthday in July.
I’m super glad you didn’t spend good money on the other frivolous stuff on my list either, like a new hairdryer to replace the one you broke trying to cook corndogs “the easy way,” or the slippers I put in the cart already for you on Amazon, or oven mitts. Who even makes dish towels anymore, right? And the Ninja blender I wanted to make you the smoothies you like? What a pipe dream. Where do I come up with such extravagances?
Really, all is well with the dollar-store platter you gave me that says, “Cookies for Santa” on the front and “Not safe for contact with food” on the back. And the special ornament you made at school with your picture inside is something I will cherish forever—as soon as we switch it with the kid you sit next to because you accidentally took home his.
Of all the lovely things I opened this Christmas, I think my favorite is the one from everybody: a brand new, extra-sturdy, double-wide laundry basket so I can “make fewer trips” back and forth from your bedrooms to the laundry room. How incredibly thoughtful. My cup runneth over. Truly.
Before I get started cleaning up the decimated remains of what took me months to plan, procure, keep hidden, and wrap—and which you managed to demolish in less than nine minutes, thus proving the theory of entropy—I would like to say one last thank you. Thank you for the reminder that no matter what I say or want or write down, you either know better or are not listening. I am a simple gal who needs to keep her feet on the ground and stop reaching for the proverbial Christmas gift stars. Thank you for saving me from the horrors of my own dreams.
Love always,
Mom
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About Michelle Riddell
Michelle Riddell lives in rustic mid-Michigan on a muddy dirt road, far away from a Target. In addition to writing for several publications including MomSense, Club Mid, Mamalode, and others, she is the essays editor at Mothers Always Writes and a decent substitute teacher. Find her on Facebook and Twitter.