Dear Badass Santa

Dear Santa:
I know I've already written you on behalf of my children, but I feel compelled to write one last letter on behalf of all of my friends who are mothers; none of us really has time to write, but I'm a fast typer and my children are more susceptible to the effects of Benadryl. Thus I author this letter for all of us in this quiet moment.

We've all just about had it with the whole "Santa is watching you" thing. It's exhausting to constantly remind the kids of their need to behave well and stop smacking their sibling with the leftover tubes from the wrapping paper or slashing at each other with a broken ornament. And we're all trying to get through December without any trips to the ER, drunken incidents aside.

To bolster your power, several of us have purchased the Elf on a Shelf, carefully moving the Elf each night to put the fear of Santa in the kids. While some are motivated, others patiently explain to the adults that it's IMPOSSIBLE for the Elf to return to you each night to report on the day's meltdowns or triumphs. Then they pat our hands sympathetically and return to seeing how many turns it takes to twist off their sibling's ear.

So we, all mothers, are putting aside our usual requests for extra hours in the day, a full night's sleep, a wife, a cabana boy, a larger wine fridge. Instead we'd like to ask you to do something truly magical, truly time-saving: we want you to scare the crap out of our kids and put the fear of Santa in them once and for all.

Here's how it works:

Child A hits Child B in the head with some object. Child B picks up another object and hurls it at Child A, only to miss and break Aunt Helen's crystal cake platter. Suddenly, YOU appear. "What the hell is going on here?" you roar,  your belly shaking not so much like a bowl full of jelly but more like a sumo wrestler who's going to kick some ass. "Knock this shit off NOW or you're getting NOTHING, I mean NOTHING from me! I will be on you like white on rice FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE and make sure that no one gives you anything but coal. You feel me? I said, YOU FEEL ME?" Then with a quick finger to the side of your nose,  you disappear in a puff of smoke that leaves your big, badass size 14 bootprints on the floor.

Seriously, the need for hourly warnings or $29.95 Elf on the Shelf packages would disappear as quickly as you did. And just think of all the extra hours we'd have in each day.

Now, I know what you're thinking. This might be bad for the brand, the whole magical, merry thing. But think of how much your stock would go up with mothers around the world, driving up that "believe" meter to unheard of levels.  You'd be more than a hero, more than a god - you'd be a rock star. With groupies. Moms around the world might be waiting with cookies when you arrive, ready to do whatever it takes to make your journey better. And we'd keep the whole plan on the down low — we'd make sure our child's credibility would be called into question should they repeat the story to any adult. Though a little buzz around the playground might help make your ass-kicking visits fewer in number, so frightened would kids be by hearing the story from their BFF.

So think about it, Santa. It's a new world with new needs and brands have to move with it, and though we appreciate your new Facebook page with the insider's look at North Pole antics, it's going to take more than that to make our Christmas merry.

Uh oh, I hear the children stirring and those restraints were supposed to be removed before the kids fully awakened, so I have to sign off soon.

So let me just close by saying we hope to see you arrive and leave in a puff of smoke some day soon, leaving cowering children behind you and some eternally grateful mothers in front of you.

Love,
The mothers