I love you so, but I just mopped the kitchen, which entailed me crawling on the floor with a butter knife, scraping petrified cheerios off the floor, and if you step one foot on that bright, shiny floor I will go insane and have your father commit me to a loony bin.
All my love,
Your adoring Mother.
I understand that I am covered in cloth and therefore might logically be considered a giant walking wash rag. But I'm not. Please do your best to refrain from drooling, spitting, wiping, regurgitating, snotting, or pooping on me. If you don't like what you are eating, please go spit it in the garbage can, don't bring it to me and wipe it on my leg.
Thanks ever so much.
Your adoring Mother.
I know you think wiping is not a manly act. Fine. Just don't make such an effort to display your manliness on the bedroom and bathroom floors. There are hampers all over the house. If you'd like I can draw you a map to each one. When I say I love everything about you this isn't included.
Dear Teenage Daughter,
I know too well the look of disdain in your eyes, I once used the same death rays on my mother when I was your age. Life will never be fair, and I will continue to be useless in your eyes until the day you have a daughter of your own. Just do me a favor until then and wear sunglasses.
I'm so very sorry about the late fees at the library, for loosing yet another GPS, and for spending too much at Amazon.com. But really, it's still cheaper than the therapy I should be getting or the medications I should probably be on.
Your Wife (who you are contractually required to love)
If my child tells you that the baby ate their homework, please do not call them irresponsible liars and write their names on the board because, in fact, the baby did eat their homework. While he was at it, the baby also drew on my walls and flushed a dirty diaper down the toilet. Homework was a little low on my list this morning as I was trying to find a clean shirt. You see, the baby ate my shirt.
Dear Grocery Stores of Connecticut,
I highly recommend that at least one of you start stocking Ben and Jerry's Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. It is just a suggestion, but it might reduce the number of complaints you've been getting about a deranged woman, crying, in the fetal position, in your freezer sections.
A Mother of Five