The last memory I have of writing to you is your standard-issue childhood memory of writing out a Christmas List. I was at a table, facing a window in the living room. I wrote to you on notebook paper, and next to my paper, was an open toy catalog. I remember asking about the reindeer and something about the kinds of cookies you liked and then I remember thinking that "miniature" was a rather stupid way to spell "miniature", but that if it was in print in a catalog, then it must be right.
And don't worry, it's totally fine that I didn't get my "miniature" dollhouse furniture. I didn't have the dollhouse to put it in, anyhow. The roller skates that you brought instead were way cooler.
Since then, I've grown out of the whole "writing to Santa" thing and have moved onto a way more awesome phase in life where I get to watch my kids write their own letters to you. You'll be getting their letters shortly, but Andy really, really, really wants this Lego-Indiana-Jones-Temple-of-Doom-Mine-Cart thing. (I often ask him to remind me of what it's called, simply because I love to hear him call it a "mind cart".) Benny wants a bouncy car and world peace.
Yes, world peace.
Anyhow, I'm 30 years old now and here I sit, about to ask for another "miniature". For Christmas this year, the only thing I want is a miniature human. A baby. See, I go in to see my doctor for some blood work on the morning of Christmas Eve and am supposed to get a call later that afternoon, letting me know if the decembryos settled in for a long, winter's nap, or not. (And a nap that lasts all of next spring and summer, too.)
I just really, really, really want to grow one. (Or two, your pick, I'm easy.) I saw a very pregnant woman with a shirt that read I create life, what's YOUR superpower? I'm assuming that she would not have been impressed with my superpower: the ability to create scrapbooks. I was jealous. Like, the kind of jealous I tell my kids that they should never be because they have so much to be grateful for.
And I do. And I am grateful that I already am a mother. But that's not what I was jealous of. I was jealous of her experiences of seeing a greyscale splotch that resembles an alien, on an ultrasound screen. I was jealous that she got to feel her husband and kids pat her belly and talk to said alien. I was jealous that she was going to get to push that baby out of her body and feel its slick, warm skin against hers as the alien sings its first newborn cry.
So, if it is at all possible, please don't fuck up my Christmas with news that I'm not pregnant.