Dear Santa,

A few weeks ago, I asked my daughter to write a letter to Santa; otherwise, I reasoned, he wouldn't know what she wanted, and neither would I. Serena decided, at first, not to write one, but she changed her mind. It was a big secret. She wrote like a kid who didn't want anyone copying off her paper, her head close to the page, her left arm swooped up like a big shield, guarding those secret words. I asked to read it, but she wouldn't let me. She said Santa wouldn't get her everything on the list if I saw it.

What kind of Santa is that, I wondered.

She hid the letter for a day or two, adding to it, subtracting. She came to me yesterday for an envelope, where she wrote, on the flap side: To Mr. S from Serena. It was on the counter while we made sugar cookies. When we were finished, she went downstairs to watch TV.

I saw my shot and took it. The envelope flap was barely glued—only one spot stuck. I opened it gingerly, then ran it upstairs to the copy machine. I returned the original to its envelope, ran it downstairs, and sat it on the counter, right on a spot of milk, which camouflaged the slightly worn spot on the flap.

It's not the same thing, really, but since you're thinking it, yes, I will be the type of mother who will read my daughter's diary. I hope that it will prove what the letter to Santa proves: my daughter really does tell me everything. Unfortunately, it will also chronicle her growth, her susceptibility to the same pressures of every other American girl.

Here's the letter:

Dear Santa, From Serena
This is what I want for Christmas
I want a gamecube and a game cube cube and controlers for the gamecube game like this
It's a disc like a dvd and it has a box like a dvd
Harry Potter and the chamber of secrets gamecube game.
And Hottwhelels Aceloracers cars.
And a robo rapter that comes with the remote control.
And lazer spi gear pleas put batterys in it thank you.
And lego bionicals castle fighting approved.
And a laptop computer.
And mini buls eye.
And a gameboy Advanst s.p. with Pokiemon emrald.
And hero scape.
And a gameboy advanst sp. with a poki monemrald.
And a real live bearded dragonlizerd.
And a digeital camra.
And a cd player for in my room.
And some amagenext a bunch of amagenext 5 boxes ["of amagenext" is erased].
And a remote control car.
And a strechey turtle.
And a bag of appletree seeds.
And a pen cold fly it makes eneything real.
And gijoe sigm six, I want all of the six figrers.
From: Serena
Adress...

My husband is supposed to take my daughter to the mall one of these nights so that she can sit on Santa's lap and give him the list. Last time she sat on Santa's lap, he informed me that I was "gonna have to git [my]self a shotgun."

As Serena grows, her lists become less quaint, more technological. I am pleased to find a stretchy turtle and appleseeds among her list of desires. I am warmed by her "thank you" to Santa in advance for the "batterys." I am charmed by her explanation of the Game Cube, as if Santa hadn't created that very item in his shop.

But I am a little sad to find this litany of sit-on-your-ass toys. Last year, she wanted a skateboard and rollerblades. The year before, it was a basketball, a new bat, a bike, a scooter. Where are the pair of ice skates and skating lessons? Where's the snare drum we need to complete the set?

Come back, little girl. Don't let the television suck you in with its sickly blue gaze. When we snap our fingers, you'll awaken to find everything your heart truly desires: some Spiderman PJs, a new pair of cleats, and "a bag of appletree seeds."

All My Love,

Mommy.

P.S. The robo raptor will be here for Christmas, and the computer is coming on your birthday, courtesy of Grammy and Peepop.