Dear Susannah, just because I said we might move to a different house some day does NOT mean our house has to explode first. You’re an odd little child. Dear Susannah (again), I know you want to be just like your daddy, but I think hitting yourself in the face with a hammer is taking it a little too far. Dear Madeline, enough with the eye-rolling, already! Dear self, you and your fingers are giant wimps. You would never make it as a burn patient. Dear Susannah (last one, I promise), I’m awfully glad that you scared yourself enough after a few snips to stop cutting your hair. Next time I wouldn’t leave the hair all over the bathroom floor if you don’t want to get caught. Dear husband, thank you for returning the library books for me. Again.
Dear Madeline, happy birthday, fluffy. I hope you feel better soon, little one. Dear self, just so you know, taking down a license plate number when you see a (jerky) driver clip another car and then roar off doesn’t make you a Good Samaritan unless you actually stop and give the victim the license plate number. Bad you. But if one of my readers just happens to be the SUV that got hit on Military Pkwy this morning, I have the jerk’s license plate number… Dear Susannah, no, the garage door opener clipped to the visor does NOT “make wings pop out of the car so it can fly.” Sorry to disappoint. But really, who need television with entertainment like you around?
Dear Susannah, you’re seriously hilarious when you sing “mother knows best” in that creepy old lady voice. Dear self, guess what, it’s the birthday season again. Hello, stress. Dear husband, it’s going to be so nice to get away with you for a few days. Can’t wait. Dear orange blossoms, you smell amazing! Lame that it took me a whole day to figure out what was smelling up my house, but still, amazing. Dear husband, who would’ve thought that you were an expert Rapunzel-hair maker? Huh. Dear month of fairy tales, we’ve sure had fun together. The girls and I will miss you.
Dear Madeline, your wheezing-gasping-late-night-trips-to-the-ER stuff is making my hairs turn gray. At least now I have something to blame it on, though. Dear Susannah, no, I really can’t explain WHY the English language is the way it is. It doesn’t make much sense to anyone, so you’re going to have to just suck it up and learn it like we all did. Sorry. Dear husband, thanks for trying to make it up to us all when we had to cancel our hot date (and the girls had to cancel their hot date with grandma and grandpa). You’re a good guy. Dear self, you’ve seriously got to stop with the coke drinking. You don’t want to end up like that lady who died from drinking it all day. No, seriously, you don’t. Dear self (again), why are you talking in the third person? Weirdo.
Dear Susannah, seriously, where does the wildness come from? Dear sisters, brother, nieces, nephews, parents, and various in-laws, your packages will be on their way tomorrow. Yes, I’m five days late. Turns out wrapping the presents before figuring out how to fit them all in the boxes wasn’t my most brilliant moment. Dear extremely rude young, male Wal-Mart employee, I had my first “wanna go Chuck Norris on someone” moment when you pushed past my cart where I was unloading my three-year old who was about to pee her pants so you could go into the FAMILY RESTROOM I was about to enter. No, seriously, I’m sure the phone conversation you were having was important enough to justify your behavior. Bravo once again, Wal-mart customer service. Dear Madeline, it was so exciting when you voluntarily started sounding out the word “white” the other day when we were setting up the tree. It doesn’t even matter that the only sound you got right was the “w” and then you announced “BROWN!” Apparently we not only need to work more on your letters, but maybe your colors just a bit…
Dear elections, please just be over already. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack. Dear self, remember never to run for public office (ha!). You would have a heart attack. Dear self (again), you knew you would end up with mediocre photos if you went to JCP, and yet you trotted your little family right down to the studio. Why?! Dear 35 homemade gifts that need to be completed by the end of the month, I honestly don’t even know how to comment. Dear new iPhone, I’m pretty much in love with your bad self. Dear elections, are you over YET??
Dear Madeline, it kills me every time you say something is “so widiculous.” Such attitude for someone so small. Dear Susannah, I’m sorry that I don’t buy you a pretzel from Subway every time we go shopping. I’m also sorry that when I say no it makes you “so depressed.” What are moms for if not to inflict trauma like that? Dear Madeline, contrary to what you may think (and say), you do NOT have to do everything around here. All we asked was for you to put a trash bag in the can. Good grief. Dear Susannah, I can tell you’ve been spending a lot of time around your dad whenever you talk for twenty minutes straight about how fast our car is because “it has a Corvette in its motor.” Just shoot me now. Dear Madeline, it totally made my day when I asked you what your favorite thing to do is, and you answered (with shoulder shrug), “I guess just kwaft-ez (Madeline-speak for crafts).” Best answer ever!
Dear Madeline, I think that toting the fly-swatter outside in hunt of victims makes you officially obsessed with killing bugs. Dear wretched back, I hate you right now, but you’re kind of important, so please start feeling better soon. Dear scale, I absolutely will smash you into a million pieces if you don’t start rewarding my hard work. I promise. Dear self, you MUST stop procrastinating. Dear Phil and Jenn, I hope you’re ready for us to intrude on you. It’s going to be a wild couple of weeks. Dear Jeremy, the whole driving-around-Waco-at-midnight just proves to me that we’re definitely old now. My bedtime is eleven. Max.