Tuesday, July 12, 2005

Letter to my son,

Let me apologize. You’re stuck with me and I am weird. This means that in the years to come as you struggle to seem “normal” to all your little friends in middle school and high school you are doomed to fail. As soon as they meet me – and, yes, I will insist on meeting all of your friends – they will realize just how demented I am. So I’m writing this to warn you ahead of time.

For starters, I have an inner monologue going on in my head ALL THE TIME. This means that random phrases and sentences make their way from my brain to my mouth at the most inopportune times. I’ve tried to convince my doctor that I have Turret’s Syndrome (damnit!) and should thus be excused from work. He (fuckface!) isn’t convinced (suck it!).

What does this mean to you? Well, it’s one of the reasons why your dad picks you up from daycare. It’s not that he loves you more than I do (I love you more!! Just remember who carried you for 9 months despite constant constipation and swollen ankles – me or him?), or that he’s any less weird. No, it means that he’s better at hiding his weirdness from other people. It means, for instance, that when he gets into a conversation with your daycare teacher about your fiery 2-year-old mood swings he doesn’t say stuff like,

“Yeah, he DOES react really strongly to changes in routine. It’s, like, he’s either on or off, either ‘you’ve just killed my family and raped my puppy,’ or ‘it’s all cool but any minute now I’m gonna get medieval on your ass!’”

I don’t know why your teacher just stood there with her mouth open and didn’t say anything back to me. It’s like she’d never heard that in the context of toddler behavior modification before…

Aside from this inner monologue there is also the fact that I cannot stop myself from giving you nicknames. It started out innocently enough with names like “Monkey Boy” and “Scooter.” Then came “Prince of Poop” and “Señor Juicy Pants.” There were also nicknames like “Pooter,” “Spud,” and “Nutter-Butter-Punkin-Flutterby.” Some of these names have had a long shelf life while others just match the particular mood of the moment. Regardless, they all share one thing: They will haunt you for the rest of your days. Just think ahead to prom night! When you bring your date home I’ll be ready with the old photo albums so I can launch into a detailed description of the night you earned the nickname Señor Juicy Pants.

Don’t worry, your father and I have been putting money away in a college fund for you. I’m sure you can dip into it to pay for the therapy you’re going to need.

Above all, I love you nutter-butter-punkin-pooter-spud! Don’t forget that when you turn 13 and start down the road of teenage loathing. Oh yeah, your dad loves you too (just not as much as me!).

Love, Mom

3 Comments:

Blogger CCF said...

He doesn't want to hear about your friggin' tortured inner monologue and shit, just shut up and be his easy chair biatch!

BTW, who makes his meals, dresses him, takes him to and from day care, rinses dirty hineys and makes the sippy...that's right, dad does. Who loves ya baby!

2:52 PM  
Blogger Pops said...

I just wrote a post just like this, instead of to my son though it was about Karl Rove. It mentioned constipation and everything. Freaky.

10:02 PM  
Blogger The Cybrarian said...

He's a very cute little individual.

7:30 PM  

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