Santa's Little Secretary?

This morning the little angel asked for something to write on.  Since she's burned through all the free real estate pads we had laying around the house doing the same thing, I handed her the envelope of a returned Christmas card.  (They're already coming back, dammit.)  (I know in my heart of hearts these Christmas cards are a one-shot deal. I'm too lazy to figure out what happened and where you live now.  I'll just forget to note that and send your card to the same wrong address again next year.)

I stared out the window at the street gang of local birds who gather at our birdfeeder every morning now.  We are the hottest thing to happen to the local bird population in years, from the signs of it.  A red cardinal and a brown cardinal were making eyes at each other over the heads of several wrens.  The bluejay must've recently quit caffeine, because he wasn't even stealing food, rather holding his head and asking the other birds for Tylenol.  This ice storm has been rough for everyone, clearly.  In the midst of my reverie, the little angel poked me in the back.

Her:  "Here, Mommy, I helped."

Me:  "What did you help with?"

Her:  "Santa's good children list.  I wrote it for him."

I looked down.  Her name was written next to a crude smiley face with a beard and hat.  Nice try, angel.