Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Well, it's that time of year again, so I'd like to put in my two-scents on this year's delivery to my house. Not that I don't think you've been keeping up mind you, but I know how hard it must be to keep an eye on things this close to Christmas.

In case you've missed it, G has been having random attacks of rage when his fellow classmates, in the name of helping, get him classroom materials that he wanted to get up and get himself. This week, it was a calculator, which he promptly flung across his room. Though he does seem suitable impressed by your powers ("Can Santa see into my brain???")he is not intimidated enough to behave.

In light of this development, please bring G some notebooks, and pencils. I know he's been asking for a Game Boy and a new Batman computer, but honestly, he needs something quiet and boring to keep him occupied for the numerous times he's been sent to his room lately. A notebook and pencils should not over stimulate him, not be too fun, and hopefully keep him from kicking the walls.

As you may have noticed, sweet little K has been something of a nightmare lately as well. Her "Diva-tude" has amped it's self up to a new an exciting level, and angry tears flow faster than ever. Please do not bring K any jewelry or dress up clothes- she already spends far to much time reinforcing her own fabulousness. Instead, please send along a nice weighty book filled with terrifying cautionary tales, of what happens when cuteness fades......

For my husband, please write him a heartfelt note informing him that wanting a clean house is not at all neurotic.

As for me, my list is simple. For starters, please crash the Dungeons and Dragons Online server and all other related internet sources. This will force my husband into far more quality time with the rest of us mere mortals.

Also, please pay next months bills, as this year's gift giving spree has left me unable to do so. I'm far to generous for my own good, as I'm sure you know.

Thank you Santa, I'll be sure to leave extra cookies and a glass of Merlot.

Sincerely,

Sarcasta-Mom

Holiday PC

When I received my kid's monthly daycare newsletter last night, I read it through thoroughly, as I always do. Being a mother that works full time induces bouts of guilt that inevitably causes you to cling to each piece of your child's life that you miss out on. I avidly read my daughter's daily reports, my son's weekly classroom updates, and of course, the daycare monthly bulletin.

As I was reading the bulletin, I was happy to learn my children were learning about a variety of holidays during this season of joy, including Christmas, Hacunakah, Kwanza and Eid. Wait a minute. Eid? What the heck is Eid? After a moment of confusion, and then despair at being out of touch with this new holiday, I promptly Googled Eid to find out what it was.

Apparently Eid ul-Fitr is a Muslim holiday which marks the end of Ramadan. This is a joyous event that marks a month long fasting. I suppose if I had to fast for a month I'd throw a huge party when I was allowed to eat too. But, that aside...

Who included Eid on the official holiday list? Why wasn't I informed? Was there a committee, a vote, a deliberation? What's next, Saturnalia?

Now don't get me wrong. I'm in no way saying that Muslims don't deserve to have their holiday included in the vast sea of the American holiday season. But please, I'm still trying to adjust to Kwanza.

In this day and age of PC sensitivities, things just keep getting out of hand. I'm still not sure if I'm allowed to say "Merry Christmas" anymore. Worried about the wrong holiday greeting, I often blurt out "Ba Hum Bug!" in a state of panicked confusion. At least everyone is equally offended by that.

The Weight Loss Mantra

After yet another struggle with my wardrobe this morning to find something to wear to work that wouldn't be cutting me in half by the end of the day, I decided it was time. You know, that time. That time where you have to decide either to crack down on the diet and exercise thing, or finally give up and buy the next size up in pants.

After a brief fantasy of giving up, eating like crazy, and finally reaching 300 lbs., I decided to go with option #1, diet and exercise. I'm weeping inside already, but I'm just not ready to embrace the idea of crossing the line into true fat-dom. I can barely stand chubby-ville as it is.

And so, in order to fully immerse myself in the spirit of fitting back into my clothes, I have developed a few key inspirational phrases, such as:

*deep cleansing breath*

A bowl of Special-K is just as delicious as a donut

Splenda really does taste just like real sugar

Size 14 is not the new size 4

*deep shuddering breath*

I do not require chocolate to survive

*tears welling slightly*

Exercising will give me more energy, not sap my remaining strength and will to live

No one will look at me funny in the gym because I don't wear $200 gym shoes or the latest high-tech sports bra

*final cleansing breath*

In a few short years of hard work, I too can look like Dita Von Tese

*and exhale*

That Smell

I have a super-senstive nose. I smell things before everyone else, and am constantly haunted by mystery smells. I can always tell when the husband tries to sneak a fart, when plastic has been left to close to the radiator, and when the cat box could use another change. It's rarely a blessing, often a curse.

So, it was not surprise that one morning, with the car packed full of my family, that I detected a smell.

Me:(to husband) Do you smell something?

Husband: Er, I don't think so. Maybe?

Me: (Sniffing heavily) I definetely smell something. It smells like something's going on with the car. Like maybe something's in the heating vent.

Husband: I might smell something...

And so on. In a brief moment of silence, the small but confindent voice of my six-year-old son piped up from the backseat.

Son:I smell it mom. It smells like gas. And not the fart kind!


And not the fart kind. Indeed.

Just Who Is Sarcasta-mom?

When people look at me, "Mom" is not the first word that comes word. Dressed in black, a nose ring prominent, tattoos peaking their way out of clothing here and there and a bitting sarcasm that drips from each word, Donna Reed I am not.

Becasue of the way I choose to look, I find myself over-compensating desperatly as a mother, to prove I am a good person and a good parent. While other kids arrive at daycare with donuts and chocolate milk, my daughter happily munches an apple. When cold weather notices appear in backbacks, my kids are the first ones with hats and gloves. Even though my husband and I work full-time, dinners are homemade, laundry is fabric softener fresh and stories are read before bed. I work hard to prove that you don't have to look like the model homemaker to be a good wife and mother.

There are definetely days when the battle begins to wear thin. Shopping for new clothes for the kids, I find myself looking at brightly colored tops, skirts and corduroy slacks. I think about taking out my nose ring, and getting my hair "done". I wonder how much easier it would be to look like other mothers, to blend in. I wonder if well-dressed, sharp and made-up women in my office would look at me differently. I wonder if it would really make a huge difference if I just gave in and became the grown-up my mother keeps hoping I'll turn into.

But then I bring myself back to reality. My kids are well loved and well cared for. I am a smart hard working mother with a college education and a good job. So what if my husband's hair is longer than mine? So what if we believe getting tattooed together is the ultimate bonding experience? Who cares if my wardrobe is load after load of darks? Is it so bad that my kids pretend to give each other tattoos when they play together?

I am who I am, and I've worked hard to maintain my individuality all my life. It is precious to me, and a value I hope to pass onto my children. My sarcasm makes my good friends laugh. I bring homemade cookies to work along with the most recent copy of "Gothic Beauty" magazine. My most recent vampire novel lays next to my craft catolouge and my newly arrived order of beads.

I am a contridiction, an amusing ball of bitterness who still melts when her children draw her pictures and say they love her. I am Sarcasta-mom!