PONEE

Dear Santa,

We need to talk. You got my letters, I know you did because I mailed them to The North Pole, which is where you live. So this is old news, but I thought we might want to revisit because I get how memory can be an issue as we age (wait, what was I saying ... ? OH, right!).

You know that I have wanted a pony more than literally anything in the world, since the age of three. And by “wanted a pony”, I mean my intensity was so consuming that I would pretend to be one (awkward at play dates!) and named all of my stuffed animals, even the turtles, PONEE (with the sole exception of “Grey Kitty”, who was wait for it … a grey kitty). You will recall that I was the first child (aka "the practice one"), so if I was not enrolled at Yale by age 15, that would be parental failure, therefore PONEES were not on my busy preschool agenda of piano lessons, ballet, tap, jazz, gymnastics, and swim lessons.

As luck would have it, I demonstrated that I was tone deaf, had two left feet, barely managed a backward roll, and did not like water up my nose. Out of options at age six, my parents enrolled me for lessons at Columbia Horse Center. You know (because you are magic and can read minds) that my parents had real concerns about my new hobby.

My mom is terrified of horses, so she was worried that I would fall off, get trampled, or get kicked in my little blonde head, thereby taking Yale off the table forever. My dad was worried that to support my new hobby, we would have to live in our Volvo station wagon, because as all riders realize, "serious" riding costs $18 billion dollars. A month.

As you know, I LOVED IT from the very first day, when I had my first lesson on Annie the PONEE, who was wider than she was tall. I moved on to taller, less ornery mounts ... my mom learned to lock the doors of her station wagon after she dropped me off, which was smart, just in case the horses had learned to open doors. My dad took on extra patients to support my habit and grudgingly learned what flying changes, martingales, and hoof picks were for, then became my ringside trainer-by-proxy at every horse show, despite never having ridden a day in his life.

Every year, first on my list -- PONEE, which became PONY, then HORSE, then REALLY, I AM NOT KIDDING, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE I WANT NOTHING ELSE (**but if you *must* get me something else, I want a new Outback Red outfit) to YOU KNOW REALLY PLEASE, I WOULD DO ANYTHING!!!!!!! (**but if you *must* get me something else, how about a car for me to drive so I can take myself to lessons and horse shows and you [I mean, my parents!!] won't have to wake up at 4 am every Saturday to get me to the barn so I can catch a ride to VA, PA or some other state for the show), to I AM LEAVING FOR COLLEGE NEXT YEAR AND I HAVE WANTED NOTHING ELSE FOR THE PAST 14 YEARS OF MY LIFE! (**OK, so I'll take a coffeemaker, I've heard I'll need one).

So, Santa, you did not come through, and that made me sad. And then there was college, law school, lawyering, child, life ... and the horse dreams were put on the farthest back burner of my mind.

So, this morning when I got the call that my appointment to meet my foster horse won't happen until next week, I thought, after waiting for 30 + years, what's a few more days? Gives me a chance to stockpile some more carrots.

And did I mention, my inner 3-year-old is squealing with glee about "MY" PONEE? Yes, she is.

Sincerely,
J