The Bears Have Breakfast

Baby Bear goes downstairs and sits in his small chair at the table, he
looks into his small bowl. It is empty. "Who's been eating my
porridge?!!" he squeaks.
Papa Bear arrives at the big table and sits in his big chair. He looks
into his big bowl, and it is also empty. "Who's been eating my
Porridge?!!" he roars.

Momma Bear puts her head through the serving hatch from the kitchen
and yells, "How many times do we have to go through this with you idiots?
It was Momma Bear who got up first, it was Momma Bear who woke everyone
in the house, it was Momma Bear who made the coffee, it was Momma Bear
who unloaded the dishwasher from last night, and put everything away, it
was Momma Bear who went out in the cold early morning air to fetch the
newspaper, it was Momma Bear who set the damn table, it was Momma
Bear who put the friggin cat out, cleaned the litter box, and filled the cat's
water and food dish, and, now that you've decided to drag your sorry
bear-asses downstairs, and grace Momma Bear's kitchen with your
grumpy presence, listen good, cause I'm only going to say this one more
time.

"I HAVEN'T MADE THE DAMN PORRIDGE YET !!

A Mom's Santa Letter

Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my two children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground and figured out how to attach nine patches onto my son's boy scout uniform with staples and a glue gun.

I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any
color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.

If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes,
Mommy" to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way
up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room" and "Take your hands off your
brother," because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely.

It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold.

Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always, MOM

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.