I often solve my "problems" by writing letters. Either to the party that I am aggravated with, or to myself (as in, Dear Lauren, stop having kids). This has proven to be very fruitful in the past (with both Roy Rogers and my state legislature) and to encourage Jack to resolve problems with words, I am writing this open letter to him.
Dear Jack,
At (merely) age 3, you have already given me so much experience and knowledge. For example, I already know the difference between battery and assault (I want to be aware of my rights) and how long you are willing to scream before you give up and do things my way (approximately 40 minutes). I know your strengths (eye rolling) and weaknesses (gummy bears) and also that I can survive being sprayed with any bodily fluids that you can produce (although Dinah helped a lot with this one). I can now see the world and note how insignificant most problems are when compared with the daunting task of keeping you alive (despite your siren call of infanticide) and teaching you how to be a nice person. I only hope that a) I succeed, and 2) that if I do, you will help solve some of the world's problems (undoubtedly through video game technology).
Mostly I now know that I want to do this all again, the sleepless nights, the magical baby poop that can escape diapers, and doing 9 times the laundry of a normal human. I am excited to haul around another lump that will eventually share with me the intimate contents of her brain and make me laugh so hard that I have to pull the car over. I am grateful that I got to start off this "experience" with a boy who is sturdy enough to withstand my mistakes and hurt feelings (you get your robot genes from your father) and who might be the most perfect big brother to a sister who hopefully doesn't turn out to be too much like me (or Dan for that matter).
Please don't make me kill you before you go to college.
Love,
Mom-EEE
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