Dear Santa,

Remember me? Its been a few years since I last took the time to sit down and write to you. I know we had a falling out, but seeing as I now have my own child, I thought we should clear the air about The Great Christmas Incident of 1988. You see, I don’t want your impressions of me to have any impact on my son’s Christmas. Preston is a terrific boy, generally good, besides the lack of wanting to go to sleep at night 4 days out of 7. I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to the world of motherhood than Preston. He brightens my days and fills my life with constant amazament at how someone could love others unconditionally – without judgment and to a fault.

Back to 1988…seeing as you are omnipotent, you must be aware that I am the youngest of 2 sisters. I ask you to keep this in mind as I retell the details of that Christmas. My impressionable young mind would and did do anything my sister told me to do, so you see, I was not at fault.

It was a cold and snowy night, not less than 3 weeks before Christmas and our parents were going out for the night. I still get heady and my nose tickles when I remember nights my parents went out. Their was a mixture of my dad’s very strong Old Spice and my mother’s very expensive mother’s-day-present-from-my-dad perfume in the air. I swear, the both of them must’ve counted at least 5 mississippis as they held their fingers down on their sprays. The perfumey smell usually filled the house till we went to bed that night. The other vivid memory I have of them going out was ma getting all blinged out – ruby ring, gold bangles and necklace, and because it was winter a largeish brooche to keep her scarf/ wrap in place. My ma was a classy original gangsta. My dad’s bling was a little more understated, but the MASSIVE aphrodite ring was his unmistakable “I’m going out” bling.

Uh, where was I again? That’s right, back to that night in December of ‘88 that my parents went to The Hole. Infamously called “The Hole” by ma because it is situated in a basement of a complex. Affectionately (or not) called The Hole cause she hated the amount of time my dad spent their playing dominos and gas bagging with his friends.That night, she enjoyed dancing at The Hole.

I think my sister and I were a little excited to be home alone. Its not like it was the first time, but something in us was feeling a little naughty that night. Maybe it was too much eggnog, heck maybe we were tired of being nice.

I don’t know what led us to the parlour where the brightly lit Christmas tree stood with presents  spread all around it. Our parlour was the kind that you didn’t really go into unless there was a reason. The cream colored couches were only for our top visitors, not a place to hang out.

I do remember that it was my sister that said “What if we just picked one present each from under the tree with our name on it.”

“And then?” I said

“And then opened it”

“We open one present each!” I screeched.

We looked at each other and decided it was a good idea. We each chose one present that had our name on it. We scurried to the kitchen and got a pair of scissors from the drawer. She had it all figured out. We’d slit the tape down one edge of the present, peek inside and then replace the tape – no one would know. Easy, our curiosity would be satisfied and we’d still be surprised with the other presents on Christmas day.

We started with the one present each, slit the tape and peeked inside, then…unfortunately…our curiosity…was not satisfied. Several minutes later we sat their with ALL of our presents spread around us with one flap open and our presents glaring out at us. Hmmm, we know we should’ve stopped, but after that first one was done, we realized just how easy it was and we couldn’t stop.

That night our parents never found out. In fact it wasn’t till many many years later over a glass of wine that we decided to confess to our mother about what we’d done and how awful we felt on Christmas morning. We felt awful that morning partly because we had to keep the lie and partly because their was no surprise in opening the presents. Ma was stunned and actually amused by our confession, I suppose you think anything your children do is cute.

So Santa, you see we’ve paid our dues by having an uninspiring Christmas morning, and then having to confess our naughty ways to our mother. So this Christmas I’m asking if we can call a truce. I’d really love for you to bring Preston some shorts, new shoes and pants. He’s only just turned 2, but he wears a size 3. He’s growing like a weed at the moment, so we can use all the clothes we can get as he grows out of them in no time. I’m sure if he could write to you himself, he’d ask for some lego like they have at his daycare and as many trucks and cars as you can fit under the tree. Whadaya say, Santa, truce? And if you’re coming this way, want to throw in a Nintendo DS Lite while your at it? I’d really love to have one

P.S. Just spoke to ma and dad. Ma says Christmas ain’t the same this year in Montreal. Something about you not being allowed to wear your white gloves for fear of spreading germs and all that H1N1 hub bub everytime you touch a child. Santa, I hope you find some other suitable replacement, maybe laytex gloves.

Happy Holidays, keep up the good work, dose up on garlic and ecchinacea and I hope that you have had your flu shot by now. Alot of people are depending on you for a merry holiday season.

Love and hugs

Ghada

This letter to Santa was inspired by Mamak Kat over at Mama’s Losin’ It.

PS Sharon, if you are reading this, you know I had to lay the blame on you for the good of the litle one