Why Single Moms Need Elves (or Very Hot Young Boyfriends)

Today I experienced one of my worst single-mom nightmares. After a long weekend apart from my child and alone at home, I ended up almost passing out in my bathroom during a shower, crashing into a baby gate half-unconscious while trying to unlock the front door for EMTs, only to end up passing out in front of the door with a wet head and pj's early in the morning. I'm still getting used to being alone as my ex and I have only been apart for nine months. There are nights when I hear noises and wish I weren't alone. My biggest fear that something would happen to me when no one was around had finally happened, but at least not before I called 9-1-1. Once I got to the hospital and was seen, my next thought was "Who will come get me?" now that I don't have my ex to call. In many ways, he has been the only family member I have had to rely on consistently. I felt alone as I lay in my hospital bed, remembering the multiple times and month-long stays in the hospital when I was pregnant and sick with hyperemesis and how he was there with me in the past.

When I finally got home, did I do the smart thing? You know, rest? No. I tried to, but then I gave in, as there's no magical elf around to clean up the messes for me. Forget the Elf on the Shelf. I need the Elf with a broom and Swiffer. I went upstairs to see that the shower had been slightly running the whole time I was gone, with the door to the shower open. The floor was soaked. When you're mostly unconscious, you forget to turn off the shower. So I started to clean up the water on the floor. Then clean up after the dog who had been left alone and had peed and pooped in the laundry room. I remembered to feed her, too, because she hadn't had breakfast. While cleaning in the laundry room, I started to panic about laundry that had been left undone. Finally, I smartened up. I got woozy again and told myself to sit the "f word" down, lest I end up flat on my small, non Kim Kardashian-like butt again. As I sat and tried to eat a small meal, I wished that like the fat jolly man in the red suit, I could have a team of elves to help me. Actually, a team of elves for every single mother working the late shift and the 24-7 shift.

Let the word out: SDF looking for good elves. Weaklings need not apply.

For those of you living in seasonal areas, it's about to go down in white any week now. After last year's insane Winter on the East Coast, I'm expecting another doozy of a Winter. Now listen: I may be a feminist, and I may believe in equal rights, but I'm also practical. Men have more testosterone than women. Testosterone produces muscle. Muscle is what helps you shovel. I don't care how many weights I lift; the fact is, ladies, I don't think I am going to survive a 14-inch snowstorm. I'm a wet noodle clothed. I don't look cute with a backache. If I had an elf — if we all had elves — they could do the shoveling for us and preferably have nice tight abs. Adam Levine perhaps? Shoveling goes over so much better with a song, don't you think?

Lists. You live with them. Shopping lists. To-do lists. School lists. You might as well write instructions all over your body because you have so many Google calendars. Wouldn't it be nice to just turn to your honey and say, "Here dear, why don't you go to Costco this time?" (You'd never give up a Target trip and you know it.) But you can't do that anymore because either you and your honey are splitsville, or your honey was MIA from the get-go. Instead, you're always the honey. You're the handyman, grocery gal, interior decorator, and then some. How awesome would it be to grab your elf by his belt buckle and shove a bunch of lists in his hands and say, "Just do it." If he's a legitimate elf, he's got to do it with a smile. He wouldn't b*tch at you like your ex may have. He wouldn't decide to "get around" to the list two weeks from now. Elves are timely! They get stuff done every year, right on time for Santa's Christmas Eve travels. I'm voting on Jon Hamm or Christian Bale, my favorite. I hope they can say "Yes, Miss Laura" in at least five different languages.

You know that issue you might have as a single working mom when every activity or school thing is too early for you to attend or pick your child up from because you're working? Well, if that greedy Mr. Claus would share an elf or two, we wouldn't have to worry about pickups or drop-offs anymore. Our trusty elves would get in their cars and arrive five minutes early to get our little ones. And they would be appropriately lustfully hot, of course.

I vote for Gerard Butler or Jake Gyllenhaal to do the driving. Who would you pick?

Mooo-mmy. Oh Mooo-mmmy! You know that call. The one that jerks you out of your totally peaceful sleep on the one night you actually made it to bed at a decent time, and now your child is summoning you to his or her bedroom. I remember the days when I could tag team with my ex and the great feeling I got when I could say as I poked him in the side, "It's your turn," only to feel as disgruntled as he was when he got the joy of the poke. Now when I flip over, there's no one on the other side of the bed to poke. Ha — yes, I went there! So it's always me, running for the call. When the kid is sick, it's just me. When the dog is sick, it's just me. When the kid or dog pukes, poops, pees, eats, whines, barks, cries, yells, it's just me.

If Santa were truly democratic and not some capitalist pig, he would be happy to share an elf or five with a SMIN — single mommy in need. We could snap our fingers or forcefully poke our elf in the side saying, "It's your turn, dear!"

I believe Alex Pettyfer would be a nice late-night look, and he wouldn't scare the children. An ugly elf just won't do, my dearies.

When stuff breaks as it always does, it sucks to have to pay money you don't have because divorce equals way less dinero than before. And it's even suckier when you go to fix something and realize, "Crap. I don't know what I am doing."

There was a recent humbling moment with the toilet bowl and myself. I cursed the fact that I have inherited my father's inability to fix anything. He told me, "Laura, I'm Jewish. I hire people." But when you can't afford to hire, you must learn quick. If only Mrs. Claus would stop schmoozing with the darn elves, I could have someone to help me now that the husband is long, long gone.

Brad Pitt or Denzel Washington would look so cute as construction boys.

Ladies: no matter what flavor your elf, we can all wish for a week with some help, rest, and a hot butt to stare at while someone else is cooking the dinner.