Sunday, November 18, 2012

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Dear Santa's Little Helper...

Dear Santa's Little Helper,

I know I'm tardy in writing, but let me just say: you made my day, my week, my year. Truly. I cried happy tears. I am still overwhelmed, and I am in awe to the point that I still tear up every day as I use your gift. Thank you, thank you, thank you!! Your gift is.... well.. it's perfection. I am humbled. And also? Curiosity is killing me, because I can NOT figure out who you are!!! That is all.


For everyone who doesn't know what the heck is going on, or why on earth I'm writing a thank you letter to Santa's Little Helper in November (and no, I don't mean the dog from The Simpsons), I'm going to tell you a story. A very cool story. A story that should be a fairy tale, but actually happened in real life. And I still can't believe it.

Once upon a time last week, there was a Momma. That would be me. Now, this Momma has had a heck of a time with a #5, and school lately. His teacher is amazing and wonderful and incredible and I love her extremely, but we are both all emotional now, trying to figure this silly #5 out. The boy is stubborn, and most likely smarter than any 7 year old has a right to be. Anyway, after a rough morning at school with #5, I walked out to my car at lunch time with aforementioned child for an impromptu lunch date and heart to heart, in hopes that it would help with... stuff.

Now, in this wonderland in the sticks that we call home, no one locks their cars or their houses. And, when we reached our mom enforcement vehicle (remember, I drive a retired black and white police cruiser), several wrapped boxes were in my front seat. Not little boxes, either.

I admit it. We stood in the parking lot like idiots,my precious #5 and I, staring at our car like we had never seen it before, and saying intelligent things like "huh??" and "What's that?" And then, we remembered that we were hungry, so we put the boxes in the back and headed out to eat. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't dying to get back home so I could tear in to that wrapping paper because I was really hoping the presents were for me, and not the monsters. I know. I know. I actually have guilt about that part. I should be a better mother. I love presents a little too much. Mostly because I never get them, but that is entirely beside the point.

I dropped #5 back off at school, amidst a flurry of stern admonitions, expressions of love, and "I just know you're going to have an awesome afternoon! See you in a couple of hours, baby!" while crossing my fingers and hoping that there would be no call that afternoon. Then I broke the speed limit the entire length of the three houses that are between my home and the school, and took the loot the stash the pretty boxes into the house, with help from my #1, because I was still recovering from having a kidney stone. (story for another day)

The boxes were labeled "open first" and "open second" and then there were a couple of smaller, unlabeled boxes, and an envelope labeled "open last!", which was underlined three times. I got the hint. I opened the envelope last. Remember, there was no name on these boxes, so there was a tiny little thing in the back of my brain saying "DANGER, Will Robinson! These presents are not for you! DO NOT OPEN!" but I ignored it.

Want to know what was inside? Do ya? Check it out, people. This is what was inside. Can ya STAND it?! I stood there, looking at the box with the Daddy. I looked at him, he looked at me. We both said, "Oh, no way. No WAY! There's no way." Because we're eloquent like that.

Well, in fact... WAY. It was a brand spanking new Bosch universal mixer with food processor and other completely awesome goodies. This is the mixer that I have silently wanted for ten years, and never got because I couldn't ever afford one. And some how, somewhere, Santa's Little Helper found out I was doing everything in the kitchen by hand. The card in the envelope confirmed, without a doubt, that these boxes were indeed for me. In November, when no one expects Santa's Little Helper to be off vacation yet, there it is.

Needless to say, I have been mixing, baking, shredding, and killing candy canes with insanely sharp food processor blades, and making cookies, bread, rolls, and cheese balls, and buying lots of sugar and flour and eggs and vanilla, and planning lots of scarily involved things to bake and mix and chop and slice and whip for Thanksgiving next week. And the Daddy has been roaring "No touch the Momma's machine!!" at the monsterlettes. And the monsterlettes beg me to use "the machine" at every moment of the day, because they giggle while they watch things mixing through the lid. The fam, as you might guess, has not complained about this. Not even one tiny little squeak of "What?! Homemade rolls for dinner again? Aw, man! Pumpkin bread for breakfast? But I wanted Cap'n Crunch!" This is the epitome of awesome.

The timing was impeccable. I mean, seriously. Right before the most awesome holiday baking marathon of the year. So, I'll thank you again, and I'll think of the magic of that day last week every time I use it. And I will never ever get over the feeling I had that afternoon, which was just like the feeling I got on Christmas morning as a little girl, looking at the sparkly lights on the tree and seeing the proof that Santa is real.

Thank you for reminding me, a cynical, deeply sarcastic 38 year old child, that Santa is real.

Santa's Little Helper image via the google, by
Bosch Universal Plus image via the google, by

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