Santa, please don't let COVID come to town

Festive season, you just weren’t what I expected this year, despite my being good all year.

So, I decided to take things into my own hands, and write a letter too Santa to see if he could help save the (Christmas) day.

Dear Santa,

I thought I'd been pretty good this year.

I tried my hardest to avoid the naughty list.

My list of accomplishments is impressive in comparison to my inadequacies. (self rated this year Santa)

Sure, I may have yelled at the kids a little. Or a lot.

In my defence, it was mostly to prevent self-inflicted harm. Like playing “hairmessers,” with sharp scissors.

I "successfully" home-schooled two humans.

My study transformed into a day-care, year one classroom, and corporate office. For five consecutive months.

Consecutive. Five.

I figured out how to log into Google Classroom. Not an easy feat when your 6 year old son earnestly explained passwords are top secret.  

I discovered the average attention span for home learning is 3 minutes on a good day.  This is evenly split between schoolwork and meltdowns (not always mine).

I painstakingly watched how long it takes a six-year-old to type their four-character name on a computer. Three minutes and 35 seconds if you are interested.

I unconvincingly pretended I had mastered working from home.

I calmly held Zoom meetings while my four-year-old dressed up as a firefighter, yelling DANGER over a loudspeaker.

Mute and background filters, you were my best friend.

Santa, I pushed through.

I pretended that life was somewhat normal while everything else fell apart.

I said farewell to my vanity. I discovered regrowth could pass as balayage once it reaches a certain length. 

I supported local businesses by ordering Uber Eats. Not because I was too tired and lazy to cook. Promise. 

I checked on neighbours and checked in with QR codes. 

I stayed home and shopped online, supporting the economy, powered by lounge wear.

I ran the gamut between languishing, burnt out, and down and out. 

And I had a much easier lockdown than most.

Compared to our front-line workers.  Our heroes who turned up every day to help others. 

Compared to everyday humans, separated by invisible borders from their loved ones. No reunion date to countdown too.

Compared to those who lost jobs, lost their independence, were isolated or became ill. 

So, Santa, could I speak on behalf of humankind?

I hope that isn’t too presumptive of me. All we want for Christmas is JOY. 

If you have it in stock, could I request the pre-2019 variety? The type that includes less worry and more wonderful?

Joy, without any strings, attached. 

Not the joy I experienced from the relief of discovering I was only a casual contact of close contact.  

Not the joy I experienced to receive a negative PCR test during the school holidays. 

Definitely not the joy of finding out I only have to isolate for seven days instead of 14.

In return, I promise to do my bit to help. I will defer my nightclub, mosh pit, dance floor comeback to avoid high risk venues. It is already 10 years overdue anyway.

I promise to only air kiss Uncle Bob, outdoors at the Christmas lunch from a 1.5-metre distance. 

I will place sanitiser on the table instead of candy canes. 

I will do a rapid antigen test more times than a pregnancy test.

I will mask up, stay safe, and practice social distancing (especially from Uncle Bob).

Santa, to fulfill my Christmas wish there is one thing you will need to do. Could you please un-invite Delta, Omicron, and extended family members to Christmas Day? While you are at it, un-invite them for every other foreseeable day too.

Santa check your list. Check it twice if you must. 

You won't find me being (too) naughty. 

I promise to be nice.

I’ll even be extra good for goodness sake. 

Just please don’t let COVID come to town.

Melanie Moffatt is a health writer, who hopes to brighten people’s day with words, wisdom (not often hers) and a side of wellbeing. She believes humour can often be the best antidote.