Dear baby Jesus,
I know your newborn nubbers be but as bitty and tender as an earlobe, but please pause that Little Drummer Boy mixtape and see to this, my latest request.
Please, oh heavens, please… do not let this little throat tickle and creeping-up cough be the first sands of many to tinkle through the hourglass of time to be spent recovering from a cold. Bedridden, miserable and relentlessly unproductive/ therefore unAmerican (destined to be older you’s least admired trait, OK?).
May the golden nectar of this Airborne dissolved in tap water have the healing power of a Eucharist washed down with wine on your fave day. May this shimmering orange liquid ensconced in a DayQuil pill behold the power of holy water disinfectant.
Through the marble gates where your cousin goddesses reside, babble to them my wish to be as whole and bright as their Supermoon. Turn on that otherworldly, childish charm to which they so easily succumb and convince them to grant your wish, widdle baby savior of the world!
Next, spirit up to St. Blaise and, like, just humor his conspiracy theories. You don’t have to stay long; I know your swaddled clothes always stink when you leave. When he hits the holy pipe for the third time and the clock strikes three and he starts talking about aliens, ask him to send healing waves down to my earthly throat and lungs, his specialty. (Also, if possible, the burner number to reach “his guy.”)
Finally, coo to your mother, who always knows how to make everything better when the world feels shitty–from the chicken noodle soup to the tea with honey to you, young prince.
Amen. XOXO. Thanks.