Dear Mr. Heimlich,
I used your maneuver on my youngest today, which dislodged the foreign object and made her barf on the floor. So thank you for telling the world how to do that. You should get royalties.
P.S. I think I have never been so happy about cleaning barf off the floor.
Dear Wheat Thins,
Nowhere on your box does it say: "Not suitable for children under three." I'd appreciate you not becoming a foreign object lodged in my child's throat again.
The Heimlich performer
I've had it with you. You're clogged and nasty all the time. I empty you, you bagless wonder you, and ten minutes later you don't have any suction at all. I used you to vacuum the van today and I think sending a goat in there would have been more effective. I mean really, you are pathetic.
And all of that makes me sad, because I really love to vacuum. It's like mowing the lawn indoors. Right now I just don't see the point (and that has nothing to do with my
hoodlums darling children).
You don't deserve a "sincerely,"
hoodlums darling children,
I don't know which of you (or which combination of you) is responsible for the dumped-out game/puzzle extravaganza downstairs. Something like 11 puzzles were mixed with five-ish games, and one of them was of the individual United States (do you know what an oxymoron is?), and all of the pieces were pokey and there for not suited for walking on in order to avoid the inevitable.
Well, today while Lexi was at preschool, I put away most of the mess. Do the math, darling children, and realize that I spent both of my SACRED HOURS organizing your chaos. And while I organized and cleaned and taped and bagged all of your things, I thought about how amazingly wonderful life would be if electronic devices were banned and you played board games and worked puzzles like children from Little House on the Prairie. *Sigh*
Ain't gonna happen.
You've been good to us lately. We've sold a bunch of junk and found two cheap dressers. I've listed a bunch of our
crap treasures to sell, but if it doesn't, we're having a yard sale when it gets warm. I promise I'll use you to advertise.
Dear future neighbors,
There is a nice house for sale on the other end of my cul-de-sac. Since you will obviously live there soon, can I make a request? Can you be a nice family with nice children for my charming offspring to play with? And, more importantly, could the female head of your household perhaps be a good friend for ME? It would be so lovely to have neighbors who don't hate us, and also to live near female heads of households who don't work [away from home] all day. I realize this might not be a reasonable request because, well, I'm me and we're us.
I'll bring you cookies.
Your future neighbor
I want my son to attend you in the fall. And I want him to love it. But you've got competition, mister, and I need you to get in the game. Mountain Ridge only has one thing on you, and that's the friends from elementary school that will feed into that middle school. You can totally win, because Zach has some great friends who attend (and will attend) you. I just need you to try a little harder.
If it makes you feel better, Tyler is SUPER excited to come in a year and a half (WHAT?!?!).
It's amazing how much I take you for granted until you don't function properly. Good grief. What are you making in there, anyway? A geode? I'm pretty sure the pains a couple weeks ago were related to your mischief, and yesterday's antics weren't really fun. However, I need you to know this: I will be traveling this weekend for my sister's missionary farewell, and if you choose one of those days to shove that geode you-know-where, I am going to be VERY upset. And not just because Mesa is out of my insurance network.
At your mercy,
We need to have a chat, and because my mental health professional says I have to start a difficult conversation with compliments, I will say that I appreciate you for holding my brain in place and for growing hair.
Now for the difficult part. I feel a burning desire for that brain you're holding to function properly. Can you help me with that? I need it to respond to the pharmacological cornucopia in my cupboard without causing a host of undesirable things to happen to me. And head: I need you to keep growing hair. Hold onto what you've got, too. All this shedding business is freaking me out. And please stop acting like you're being pressed with a vice. I don't even wear headbands, for heaven's sake. That look was so 2005.
At your mercy,
Dear Les Miserables,
I decided to be SPONTANEOUS (I need a gold star) and set a date with Garry to see your highly hyped wonders. I must say you were more entertaining than I expected, but much more tragic than I remembered. Good grief! Why do people want to see you again and again? Is Kleenex one of your sponsors? I have to say, the one good thing about being dead inside is that I didn't cry at all. But maybe that's because I'm stubborn and didn't want to cry. I only had napkins at my disposal, and that just hurts my nose.
The best part, of course, was indulging on popcorn (don't tell my psychiatrist), holding Garry's hand, and coming home to house that was cleaner than we left it. If it takes a sad movie like you to get that stuff, then maybe I'll see you again after all. Like maybe tomorrow night.
The lucky girl who sat behind the wheelchair spot so she could rest her feet on the railing