Dear Santa,

Today I wrote letters to Annabelle and Sophie and signed your name. I hope that’s okay. I hope I got the letters right. I haven’t done them before; that’s always been my mother in law’s turf, but as you know, she’s not around to do them this year.

I bought some cute paper at Target, similar to the paper she always used, and had to get someone at work help me print them out. They look good. I used a font I think you’d approve of.

I’m just a Jewish girl with a thing for Christmas, so forgive me if I screwed up at all. I stuck a line in Annabelle’s about giving the letters to Rudolph to fly down to Arizona, because I’m not sure how you’re supposed to get the North Pole postmark stamp on there. I’m sure there’s someone who will do that, but I’m a little busy this week so I haven’t had time to research it.

I’m pretty sure my mother in law just mailed them from Phoenix, but this year Annabelle’s getting pretty darn savvy. The other night I caught the tail end of a conversation she was having with her dad; when I walked in the room, he announced, “I told Annabelle that I am not the one who fills her stocking!”

Well, that’s true. I’m Stocking Girl. I know Annabelle knows the whole thing’s bogus, but she’s wise enough to not say anything. And she’s my daughter — I know how she feels. I know you’re not real, Santa, but in a deep corner of my heart, I do sort of wonder, just like I wonder about the tooth fairy, even though I make all of her deliveries, too.

And even though I don’t believe in heaven, a little part of me still wants to think that Annabelle’s Grandma saw her dance this weekend in Snow Queen, and knows how well Sophie’s talking these days.

Hey, why not? Sophie believes in you. And she’s one of the smartest people I know.

While I’m at it, Santa, I’d really love an electric tea kettle. I know they’re sort of dumb — when I asked Ray for one, he refused, and reminded me of the old Mr. Tea skit from Saturday Night Live. He’s right, there’s no real need for an electric tea kettle. Not when you have a stove. (And a microwave.) But still, that’s what I want. And it looks like you’re my only hope.

Please give Mrs. Claus my best and take care of yourself.

Love,

Amy