My Dear Letters

Dear Tom,

Do you forget who I am sometimes? Telling me stuff like, “You wouldn’t believe the turd I just dropped,” is NOT something I want to hear. Not from my husband, not from anybody. Thanks.

Signed,
Your-Please-Don’t-Talk-Poo-With-Me
Wife

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Dear Neighborhood Parents,

Please stop sending your kids over to play less than five minutes after the kids have returned home from school. You see, I actually like conversing with my kid and asking about his day. Having your kid show up right away makes my kid not want to talk to me. So please. Give us at least a half hour before I have to endure your hellions—I mean, children.

Signed,
A-Mom-Who-Actually-Likes-To-Talk-To-Her-Kid,
Amber

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Dear Gymboree,

Please make ugly clothes so I’m not tempted to buy. Make another animal print line. You know how much I hate animal print.

Signed,
A-Non-Animal-Print-Fan,
Amber

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Dear cars that tail me when I’m going the speed limit,

I’m sorry, did you miss the big sign that said the speed limit was 40? I usually go 45 and I refuse to go any faster than that. Christmas is approaching and I’d rather not have a $100 ticket. So get off my car’s ass! It offends her.

Signed,
A-Would-You-Like-Someone-Up-Your-Butt???
Amber

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Dear Natalie,

Sweets, that plastic thing with the hole in the middle is a toilet. Not an oversized hat. So please treat it like a toilet and GO in it. Not in the vent. Not on the carpet. Not in my slipper. Go in the TOILET. Are we understanding each other?

Signed,
A-Wondering-If-Her-Daughter-Will-Be-In-Diapers-Forever,
Amber

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Dear Tommy,

Actually, I AM the boss of you. I don’t know why you keep saying that I’m not. I pushed your eight pound body through my crotch, therefore I am the boss.

Signed,
An-Over-Ten-Hours-In-Labor-So-I-Will-ALWAYS-Be-Boss,
Amber

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Dear Thighs,

Stop expanding

Signed,
I-Want-To-Fit-Into-My-Pants,
Amber

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(If my thighs could write, this is probably what they’d say:

Dear Amber,

Stop eating so many Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and we wouldn’t expand.

Signed,
Your Thighs)

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Dear Tom (again),

I’m not sure if you’re aware, but that was my head that you slung your arm across at three in the morning.

Signed,
A-Wishing-For-Separate-Bedrooms,
Amber