Perspective

Bear and I have worked more than our fair share of retail jobs, and could probably both write books about all the obnoxious and irate customers we've encountered (not to mention the smelly, the perverted, the rude, the unintelligible, the drunk, the too-busy-on-their-cell-phone-to-bother-with-this-transaction...need I go on?). I have since escaped to the world of education, but Bear's in retail management now, and every time he has a customer go ballistic on him because their $1,500 worth of furniture will be delivered thirty minutes late or because the sofa they chose is available in mauve but not cranberry, I tell him the following:

"You should keep a giant poster of African orphans behind the counter, and when people freak out about stupid stuff, pull it out and say: 'I'm sorry, sir/madam, but could you please explain to these orphans in Africa how YOU are having a bad day?'"

So, with that in mind, I issue the following open letters:

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Dear Keira,

Daddy and I have given you ample time to adjust to your big-girl bed and the newfound freedom it offers. Henceforth, I must request--nay, demand--that you refrain from sneaking out of your room and into the playroom during naptime, and that you stop showing up, Blankie in hand/mouth, at my side in the living room long after we've tucked you in for the night. You're going to give me a heart attack doing that one of these days.

I must commend you for figuring out so quickly how to climb over the gate in your doorway, and for knowing intuitively that you'd need to wrap your stuffed doggy in Blankie and toss your little fugitive package over the gate ahead of you every time. You're so cute that it's hard to be stern with you, but Mommy is tired (please see letter #2 for further explanation of this matter).

Now go to sleep.

Sincerely,
Mommy

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Dear Ellie,

I love you. You are so impossibly adorable that it physically hurts. I must say, however, that Mommy is much better able to play with you and enjoy your cuteness--not to mention function in the adult world--when she has a decent night's sleep under her belt. It's not that I don't love seeing you at 11pm, and again at midnight...and at 2am, and 3:30am, and 5:30am...because I do. If you could confine your cooey, shrieky joy until the daylight hours, though, and keep your food requests to a reasonable number--say, two or three?--during the night, I would really appreciate it.

Love,
Mommy

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Dear Jodie,

The day I brought you home from the Saturn dealer was a joyous one. A car with air conditioning, functioning door handles, and an actual paint job was more than I could ever have hoped for. I realize I haven't treated you as well as I should have, and that thanks to my offspring, the milk stains and smashed Fig Newtons will never come out of your interior. You're entitled to some bitterness there, but I must know exactly what it is you want from me.

Over the past few weeks, we've given you a new battery and a new alternator, and had you checked out by two professional mechanics, and yet you continue to be lifeless when I try to start you in the morning...or, say, at the mall, with my baby and toddler waiting to be transported home in the 100 degree heat. Why must you torture me so? Do you WANT to be traded in for that minivan I've been coveting? Believe me, I'd be more than willing if I had the money, but I don't. Can you please hang in there for another few months or so?

Sincerely,
Your Driver

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Dear Universe/God/Karma/Fate/Whomever it May Concern:

Thank you for the opportunity to be awoken by two beautiful, healthy children every day and night. I am eternally grateful to have them, my Bear, our house, and even my temperamental vehicle. I appreciate every day the good fortune to enjoy hilarious friends, generous family, surprisingly attractive boy bands of years gone by, and all the other pleasantries this world has to offer. I will now stop complaining.

Sincerely,

Me.