Many years ago, (over 40 of them, as of 2011), Mum sat me down at the dining table with a piece of paper and a pencil and told me to write a letter to Santa Claus. She instructed me to tell him I was very good that year and what I would like him to bring me for Christmas.
I asked for Lego and a fire truck … I got Lego and a baby brother.
A couple years later, she did it again, but this time I got to write for Handsome too, because all he did was eat his piece of paper.
I asked for more Lego and a puppy … I got more Lego and a baby sister.
After all those years, I wondered if Santa ever saw my letters. I don’t think he did, I believe the Elf Mailroom turned them over to the Elf Steno Pool, who shuffled them directly to the Toy Workshop, where a bunch of dyslexic elves misread them, along with the thousands of letters from other children. Maybe you were one of them.
I was a little disappointed that year, but I could identify with getting a baby sister instead of a puppy – they both drool and whine and chew Daddy’s slippers (Sweetie did when she was two!), but what I didn’t (and still don’t) understand is: how is a baby brother like a fire truck?
Oh, wait … never mind.