I can’t argue with him. I can’t take him to library time in this get-up, or lack there-of. I can’t get enough coffee in me to make it to nap time. I can’t chase “baaman” and the naked boy wonder. I can’t finish my blog posts. I can’t register the 17-year-old for the PSAT. I can’t run another forgotten lunch to the school. I can’t face make-up, and I can’t face dealing with my hair. I can’t face the gym. I can’t face another meatloaf. I can’t get the bills mailed. I can’t believe the number on the scale. I can’t sign up for Weight Watchers… again. And I can’t open the sippy cup I just found under the bed, it is moving and has a pulse. I just can’t.
“Oh, my word! Suzy is such a hick. ‘Ashley won’t wear shoes.’ Puh-lease! Just put shoes on the child. Who is in charge in this relationship?”
I was dropping Sophie (our 13-year-old) at piano lessons, and one of the toddlers said, “bye-bye Bobbie! I wub you. Dank du!” Another toddler responded, “No! Bebe, you using da wrong WORBS! It’s bye-bye GOGIE! And you don’t say dank you to her. She didn’t gib you nuffin’…”
The wrong words.
I had 126 messages this morning when I woke up. An Open Letter to My Children has gone out into the cyber world and had itself a heck of a run. This morning it had been viewed 500,000 times on Word Press. It was republished on For Every Mom and has been shared over 7,000 times on that site. And while some of you may think that is a crying shame let me use my words to say a few things.
You’re funny. And talented. But as I sit in this dance recital I am holding a foster baby that is in our home for the weekend and I am witnessing an American atrocity that I want you to remember.
And it is not a drug addicted baby.