My grown-up Christmas List

By Dorothy Wilson

“The Marion Mom” “All-star white optic Converse. Size 7. American Girl doll and accessories. (You don’t have to) Victoria’s Secret stuff. A puppy.”

My 10-year-old daughter penned a fabulous Christmas list, which I mostly ignored. Victoria’s Secret “stuff?” Child, you’re ten.

Ain’t happening.

Besides, I discovered her wish list buried in a mound of schoolwork just moments after I requisitioned gifts on Amazon.

To my knowledge, Amazon doesn’t sell puppies.

But they don’t offer world peace, either. Or “No more lives torn apart, that wars would never start, that love would never end.”

Yes, that’s from the song, “Grown-up Christmas List,” in case you were wondering.

No, I didn’t write it.

Because if I had written it, my list would look signifi cantly different.

It’s my understanding that Santa is both loaded and omnipotent, so I spared no expense or imagination drafting my list: A piano (both tuned and sturdy). We have two pianos in the house, neither able to hold a tune, and one so precarious you pray for protection when you approach it.

When both play together, it sounds like a brothel of cats in heat. Don’t ask me how I know. Just spay and neuter your pets already… especially if you live in my neighborhood.

Crock-pot. Yeah. I broke mine. Christmas is all about replacing items you didn’t take care of in the first place, right? (Hint: Amazon does sell crockpots.) Toaster. We currently use the broiler to toast bread. My success rate at delivering unburnt toast is coming in at about 20%, or roughly the Grizzlies shooting percentage. Both need some tweaking.

A bionic spine. Or a stocking full of muscle relaxers, ibuprofen, and ice packs.

A clean house. Cleaning the house with kids around is like brushing your teeth while opening a package of Oreos. On the plus side, if anyone tries to burglarize us, they’ll probably trip on the clutter and break their arms in classic Home Alone fashion.

They say money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy a maid. And that’s basically the same thing.

The metabolism of a cheetah. Because yum.

Perfect teeth. It’s not vanity. It’s aglophobia.

I hate root canals, and I’d like to make it a year without dental issues.

That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Online grocery shopping. We have figured out how to get shoe boxes full of Dollar Tree junk to thirdworld children in every part of the known universe, but we can’t figure out how to affordably offer online ordering and delivery of fresh groceries in Arkansas? (Missouri, yes. Utah, yes. Flippin’ Wisconsin, yes. But not Arkansas. I’m a little peeved.) Fix the crapper. So, we had a septic backup in March of last year.

Feces covered the entire bathroom. Sadly, the classy, porous travertine tile soaked it all up like Bounty, forever tinging it brown and emitting that lovely parfume, eau-de-portajohn.

We dealt with the problem like responsible adults: we ignored it. I recommend not choosing what’s behind door number 2, if you catch my drift.

Please, Santa, please, destroy the-literally-crappy bathroom and rebuild it into something fantastic that smells like the beach, the spring, and lots and lots of bleach.

Compliant and obedient children… and also husband, while you’re at it. If everyone would just do what I say, we’d all be happier. A girl can dream, right?

Sleep. For days. Can I get an Amen?

A Cloak of Invisibility.

Not many people realize $

that upon becoming a mother, you are bequeathed a cloak, not of invisibility, but of magnetic attraction. It doesn’t matter where you are, your kids will find you.

Bedroom? Yup. Toilet?

Every time. Front porch?

Never fails. Next door?

They follow in droves.

If you think you have a moment where the children are happily playing quietly together, and you think, “This is a great time to pay the bills,” it’s a trick! Don’t fall for it!

Your cloak of magnetic attraction triples in strength when it senses that you need a moment alone.

It causes your children to sail past your husband, who is likely lounging on the couch watching the game while you’re chopping, boiling, stirring, mashing, and scooping out dinner.

They holler, “Mo-om!” followed by some ridiculous request: “Get me a bandaid for my doll!”

or “The cat left a dead bird on the steps!”

or “Look at all this hair under my armpit!”

or “I stopped up the toilet again!”

or “The piano leg broke off!”

or “Tyler’s stuck on the roof!”

or “What’s my password for Minecraft?”

or “I was supposed to make cookies for the party tonight!”

or “My musical.ly has 117 likes! Watch it right this minute!”

Um, hello? Your dad is right there.

I would wear out that cloak of invisibility. In fact, you’d better get me two.

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures life with their seven children brings.