My Last Letter To Santa

I know that usually the whole ‘letter to Santa’ thing stops when you’re about ten, but now that my childhood is slipping away with every time I get kicked in the bladder (that would be a really odd sentence if I wasn’t pregnant), I feel like I need to make the most of my last year of being able to write a letter to Santa, before I have to help a child write one instead. I know, the notion of a 6-month-old writing a letter to Santa is maybe a bit ambitious, but D is a creative writer and I keep a blog so by damnit he or she will be writing by Christmas. I just read this out to D and he said “What, with fingerpaints?”. Of course not, he or she will be doing joined up writing by next December. D gave me a look and said “I can’t even do joined-up writing”.


Dear Father Christmas

I’ve been a good girl this year Let’s not beat around the bush. My maternity jeans and the inevitable scan pictures on my Facebook timeline are proof that I haven’t really been a good girl this year. I don’t just mean the whole ‘getting pregnant’ thing. I may have done a few things I’m not wholly proud of over the past 12+ months (I didn’t write you a letter last year, for starters). I mean, you know things aren’t great when you’re introducing yourself to your course’s new first years, and your friend says “Ah, I remember the first time I met you. You were running around the student bar pulling your top down and shouting about your boobs” (In my defence, I was drunk at the time. Okay, that’s not a great defence).

Well, in hindsight, I haven’t been that good a girl this year. I’ve done some things I’m not altogether proud of. I’ve gotten drunk (not while pregnant, I promise, although that cheeky SoCo and lemonade last week may as well have been fifteen jaegerbombs from the look on some of the people’s faces). I may have done stupid, embarrassing stuff while drunk, like falling over a sofa, declaring to all and sundry just how sexy D is, and letting a certain uni friend sing the female part of ‘Summer Nights’ on karaoke night (yeah, I ended up being Danny Zuko every time). But despite all these mistakes, I’m not doing too badly now. I mean, I’m eating healthily (when I’m not craving donuts and hot dogs), I’m turning up to uni every single day (even when I probably shouldn’t), I’m not even drinking and going out to karaoke night anymore!

Alright. So this is all because I’m pregnant at nineteen. Which probably automatically excludes me from the ‘Nice List’ anyway. But I’m sure the baby has been very good – it’s punishing me by kicking me and all that, so it’s trying to do your job for you – and I’m fairly sure it hasn’t gotten drunk or thrown a tantrum or declared undying love for someone yet. And it’s inside me, so technically it’s part of me. So does it count as me? Isn’t there something in the Bible about the sins of the parent or something? (Maybe I shouldn’t admit this either but I haven’t read the Bible and don’t believe in God, but I believe in you so please don’t hold it against me). I hope this will stand in my favour.

So as you can see, I have been a very good boy-or-girl-we-won’t-know-which-until-April these past few months, and this clearly cancels out everything from before that. So please, Father Christmas, can I have a happy Christmas?

Cheers big guy,

Love, M (and SB)





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