Open Letter to Santa Claus

Dear Santa:
I recognize I’m a little old for this, but I have one Christmas wish that my family does not seem to understand – so I am hoping you will.
I’ve been good, Santa. Check your list. Look for me under Nice; I am too boring to be on the Naughty side. You will probably find me somewhere between David Suzuki and Barrack Obama. I may not be saving the planet or winning a Nobel prize, but I’ve done good deeds this year.
For example, I made dinner for my family on a regular basis. Well, okay, five nights out of seven, but it’s all about the effort, right? I stopped watching late night television and started to read books. Okay, sometimes I watched Melrose Place, but only to remind myself that I am old enough to offer relationship advice to the tarts on that show. Whatever.
I still open doors for strangers in shopping malls. I stopped yelling out “You’re welcome” when they forgot to say thank-you. I’ve even cut back on unnecessary purchases. In my defence, I really did need that Skor chocolate bar and that trash magazine last week. Everyone needs a hobby.
I have been an outstanding mother, wife and friend; just ask me.
So Santa, I respectfully ask that you consider my one request: I want clean floors in my house. It’s that simple. I want to walk from my bedroom to the bathroom, to the kitchen and the office upstairs without so much as a piece of Lego piercing my foot, or a wet puddle of melted snow soaking my fresh socks.
I want to enter the kitchen and know that I will not step on a cold noodle from last night’s meal, or a runaway Cheerio that makes that crunch sound to remind me that I now have Cheerio dust, as opposed to a simple “O” to sweep up.
I want the German shepherd dust balls that roll across my hardwood floors like tumbleweed in a western movie to magically disappear. If you can make that happen, then perhaps you could create a hamster cage that actually holds the wood chips in the unit. Is that so much to ask? Then could you please do something about the gravel and the mini-bombs of dried mud that fall off the Carpenter’s clothes at the end of every work day, landing all over our bedroom carpet?
And I want a vacuum cleaner that really does “suck.” Maybe I’m asking for too much now, but I’d be ecstatic if the broom and dust pan were actually in the place they are supposed to be. For reasons beyond my comprehension, they are never on the hook specifically installed to house them.
Santa, if you can assure me a permanently clean floor, I promise that I will dance on it every day. I will make time to dance with my children after dinner. I will slow dance with the Carpenter when the curtains are closed. I will dance alone when everyone is out of the house for the day. I will rejoice in my cluttered life, feet planted firmly on the floor, dancing for the pure joy of being alive. I will let the Cheerios lie.
Tell you what, Santa, I’m going to go ahead and do that any way. Life is too short for clean floors. You do what you can. I’m going to be happy this Christmas either way. Maybe just throw in a pair of slippers? God bless you, Santa. Merry Christmas.

Kelly Waterhouse