My Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

It’s been another year, and once again I find myself writing to you—not because I’ve suddenly become extremely organized, but because the Internet reminded me that if I don’t ask, I won’t get. And honestly, at this stage of life, I’m willing to negotiate.

First things first, Santa: I would like to confirm that I’ve been “mostly nice.”
Yes, there were a few moments involving burned dinners, folded laundry that never made it to the closets, and the incident with the broken ornament that “mysteriously fell by itself.” But overall, I think I’ve earned a passing grade. If you’re keeping track on some magical spreadsheet, please feel free to use the “curve.”

Now, I do have a few requests this year. Nothing extravagant. Just the usual wishes of a tired father holding on to the last bits of holiday magic with one hand and a cup of coffee with the other.

1. A house that cleans itself—properly this time.
Last year, I asked for a self-cleaning house. This year, I’d like to add an upgrade: a house that not only cleans itself, but also stays clean for more than seven minutes.
And if you can throw in a smart system that blocks any child holding a glitter bottle from entering… Santa, that would be revolutionary.

2. A nap that resets my entire existence.
I know I asked for this before, but clearly the message got lost in transit.
I’m talking about the kind of nap that oxygenates the soul. The kind of nap where I wake up and forget my own name for a minute. Doctor’s orders? No. Dad’s fantasy? Absolutely.

3. A Christmas tree that magically decorates itself.
I love the tradition, Santa. I do.
But every year I end up rediscovering decorations that look like they survived a minor explosion. And the lights? Those lights have more knots than my headphones from 2004.
Just give me a tree that rises from the box fully dressed and ready for compliments. Like a celebrity arriving on a red carpet.

4. An “Anti-Overthinking Switch.”
Not for the kids—for me.
I’d like a button I can press whenever I start calculating whether I bought enough presents, wrapped them properly, hid them well, or accidentally used the same gift bag from last year that had a name written inside.
One click. Peace.

5. A special North Pole immunity to Christmas songs.
Look, I love Christmas music. Truly.
But after hearing the same cheerful jingles since November 1st, my brain is starting to glitch.
If you have a playlist that hasn’t been played 6 million times in every store on the continent, please share. Or better yet, send noise-cancelling earmuffs labeled “For Dads Only.”

6. A “Holiday Patience Booster Pack.”
For fathers everywhere.
For the moments when your kids argue about who gets to hang the star.
For when someone drops a cookie on the freshly washed floor.
For when wrapping paper runs out this much before the end of the gift.
Just a small bottle of patience. Or three. No judgment.

7. The ability to find the tape dispenser.
Santa… why does the tape vanish every year?
We have 14 rolls in the drawer in January, and by December they’ve all mysteriously joined the Bermuda Triangle. If you could please deliver one single roll of tape that doesn’t disappear when I blink, that would save Christmas morning.

8. The strength not to eat all the chocolate before Christmas Eve.
That’s it. That’s the wish.
(But if you could also hide it from me so I don’t know where I hid it… even better.)

9. A universal remote for the whole family.
Not for the TV—
For the entire family.
A magical remote with buttons like Pause, Mute, Slow Down, and my personal favourite: Cleanup Mode.
You press it once and suddenly everyone is putting toys away as if it’s a competitive sport.

And finally, Santa…

10. A moment of silence.
Not symbolic silence. I mean the real kind.
Five minutes where the house makes no sound, no one calls “Daaaad!”, and nothing needs assembling, fixing, cooking, or retrieving from behind the couch.
Just a pocket of peace wrapped in snowflakes.

Santa, I know you’re busy, so if you can’t manage everything on my list, I understand. I’ll gladly settle for anything that helps me survive the holidays with joy, humor, and at least a tiny bit of dignity.

Thank you for always keeping the magic alive. And thank you for understanding the struggles of every tired parent who is doing their best to create memories—even when tangled in lights, buried in wrapping paper, and surviving entirely on sugar cookies and hope.

Yours (still mostly nice, depending on the day),

GK