Dear Madeline, when you’re playing momma to your baby can you please not be so impatient and crusty? I know who you’re imitating and am developing a complex. Dear sugar, is it really going to be this much of a battle for the rest of my life? I hate you….and I love you. But man, I hate you! (and love you…) Dear husband, just so you know, you’re all right. I mean, not everyone can be COLBY, but hey, you do a pretty good job. Dear girls, I know we’ve been over this twenty seven hundred times, but it’s Tweety Bird, NOT Twinky Bird. And no, I don’t know why it’s such a big deal. Dear Heather, have that baby already! And swing by here on the way home so I can meet her, okay? I’ll send you an inflatable pillow or something to make the drive more comfortable. Dear pediatrician, it must be nice to be able to classify everything as allergies. So why even see us? I’d like you a lot more, if, when we called to make an appt, you’d say, “Oh, it’s just allergies; don’t bother wasting three hours of your day trying to keep your kids from ransacking our office while we do who knows what for two hours after we call you back.” See? Wouldn’t that be nice? I should have been a pediatrician. Dear 24 (I know, I know!), I think it’s time for our relationship to come to an end. And not just because I finally finished season 8. No, it’s BECAUSE of season 8. Horribleness. Complete, utter horribleness.