To my dear
and wonderful children,
I love you
very much. But I feel you should know that as you grow and become the amazing
people you will be, I am planning ways to get back at you. In love. This will
all be done in love.
*I will pick
my nose in public and then ask you to take the booger. If you don’t, I will
wipe it on your back and you won’t find it until you get undressed that night. So
you should probably just take the booger when I offer it.
*I will come
into your bedroom every single Saturday
morning and jump on your bed at 6:00 am. I will then alternate between
screaming and whining until you either cry or make me breakfast. Either one is
fine.
*I will not
eat anything you make. Ever. As a favor though, I will rotate the use of the
words ‘nasty,’ ‘gross,’ ‘disgusting,’ and ‘looks like poop’ so you never know
what’s coming.
*When you
have friends over I will come and tell you every time someone looks at me
weird, makes a mean face, knocks over my stuff, breathes on me, or talks to me.
Or if they don’t do any of those things I’ll let you know they’re ignoring me.
*I will
always ask you questions when you’re on the toilet. I will walk in and comment
on your thighs and cellulite and ask why your bottom looks so different than
mine.
*I will
spill wine (because I’m a freaking grown-up and I can drink all the wine I
want) all over your clothes right before you leave the house. But you won’t be
able to change because then I’ll start crying and you’ll have to comfort me.
*I will unfold all the laundry you fold. All of it. The rest of your life. I'm serious, kid. It's gonna be epic.
*I will wet
my pants in public and then just stand there in the middle of the Target One
Spot and yell that I did so. Bonus points if I can eke out a turd.
*I will make
very inappropriate statements to strangers at every opportunity. That nose ring
looks like a booger, you have owies all over your face, your breath smells like
poop. That kind of thing.
I’m sure I’ll
think of more, but for now I’ll just file these away for future use. Payback’s
a—very unpleasant thing, kids.
With love,
Mom