Every year, someone asks me that question—sometimes it’s Rex, sometimes my mom, sometimes a friend who still somehow has the energy to buy actual gifts instead of Amazon gift cards. And every year, I say the same thing: “Oh, I don’t need anything.” Which is a total lie.
I mean, technically, I don’t need anything. I have my family, my health, and a coffee maker that hasn’t let me down yet. But want? Oh, I’ve got a list. It’s just not the kind you wrap in shiny paper and stick under a tree.
For starters, I’d love one morning where everyone wakes up and magically remembers how to put their laundry in the hamper. Like a Christmas miracle of domestic order. Or maybe a single day when the boys don’t argue about who gets the blue cup. Just a peaceful breakfast, maybe even warm pancakes instead of cold ones. That’s a dream gift right there.
And honestly? I want time. Real, uninterrupted, nobody’s-asking-me-for-anything time. The kind where I can sit with a cup of coffee and actually finish it while it’s still steaming. Time to just breathe, scroll Pinterest, and pretend I’m the kind of mom who could pull off homemade ornaments (spoiler: I’m not).
But if Santa’s taking requests beyond the magical and unrealistic, I’d like some softness this year. Not in the “new throw blanket” kind of way (though, yes, I’ll take that too), but in how I treat myself. I spend so much time juggling—kids, work, expectations—that I sometimes forget to be gentle with me. I want to give myself a little grace when I lose my patience, when the to-do list wins, when dinner ends up being cereal.
Nico said the other night that he wants “everybody to have fun for Christmas.” And that kind of broke me a little, in the best way. Kids have this way of boiling life down to the simplest truths. Fun. Togetherness. The excitement of lights on palm trees and the smell of cookies burning (again) in the oven.
Anthony, on the other hand, wants “a giant robot that eats bad guys.” Which, fair. We all have our things.
There’s something about Christmas in Miami that always makes me laugh—it’s like the universe said, “Let’s give them twinkle lights and humidity at the same time.” But there’s something beautiful about it too. The palm trees wrapped in lights, the smell of Cuban coffee mixed with cinnamon from the kitchen, the faint sound of neighbors blasting Mariah Carey from their balcony. It’s chaotic and warm and perfect in its own strange way.
As I get older, I think what I really want for Christmas isn’t stuff—it’s moments. I want to freeze time during the seconds when the boys are tearing through wrapping paper, their faces lit up like pure joy. I want more nights where Rex and I collapse on the couch after everyone’s asleep, looking at the tree and laughing about how we survived another year of parenting.
And if I’m being totally honest, I wouldn’t say no to a spa day gift card. Or one of those fancy candles that smells like “wealthy calm person who doesn’t have fingerprints on their fridge.”
But mostly, I want to keep finding magic in the small things. The kind you can’t order online. The kind that happens when Anthony starts singing Christmas songs off-key in the backseat, or when Nico helps me wrap gifts and immediately spoils every surprise.
So yeah, what do I want for Christmas this year? I want more laughter. More slow mornings. More grace—for myself, for everyone. Maybe a cleaner kitchen, but I won’t push it.
And if Santa’s listening—throw in that robot for Anthony. He’s been really, really good this year. (Mostly.)