Dear Yellow Cottage on the Corner,

For five years, we've called you home, building memories within your cozy walls. You've been so good to us, and suddenly I'm crying thinking about saying goodbye.  This weekend, we will move the last of our boxes and belongings from your rooms.  I'll sweep up whatever dust bunnies are lurking in forgotten corners, and a new family will fill you up with the mixture of laughter and heartache that makes a life.  I hope you know that I will never forget you.  How could I?

It was here that we built a new life in a new place.  The first city we called home together that we really felt we could put down roots and stay awhile.  You are the first home Everett has ever known, and the first home Kaden will remember.

We sweat through project after project making you truly ours, so much so that I doubt your original owner would recognize you.  We spent hours painting and polishing you, tearing you apart, and building you back up.  Perhaps that's part of why saying goodbye stings just a bit more than I expected.    

We watched fireflies dance through the woods outside your kitchen window on summer nights; we watched quiet snow blanket the same scene in winter, while we nibbled beignets and drank cocoa.

Here we celebrated birthdays and anniversaries, orchestrated games of hide-and-go-seek, baked cookies, listened to rain storms, knelt in family prayer, read books curled up on the floor.

We cried here, a time or two--our faith growing while we shouldered some big burdens--but mostly we laughed and smiled, smiled and laughed.  I'm thankful for every tear and every giggle.  Every sadness and every joy.  Thank you, house.  Thank you.

With Love and Appreciation,

A Sentimental Mommy

A Letter to My Baby

Dear Everett, 

Tonight, when I tucked you in, swaddled in a nest of blankets and stuffed animal friends, I hugged you tight and asked you a very important question.  "Will you stay my baby forever?" I asked.  You paused for a moment, really considering, and said, "Yes."  "Promise?"  I asked.  "For ever and ever?" "Yes!" you said again.

My eyes brimmed with tears, because, of course I knew you were lying.

Someday, you'll stop saying, "I just want to snuggle with you."  You won't depend on sucking your thumb and caressing your belly button to fall asleep.  We will go for a drive in the car, and you won't enthrall me with your newest ideas for this year's Halloween costume.  "Mom!  I know what I should be . . . "

Someday, you won't be scared to jump in a swimming pool, or if you are, you'll do it anyway, instead of clinging to me like a spider monkey.

Your thick, little, potato-like baby feet will turn into normal little boy feet.  They'll slide into shoes that you can lace on your own.  They won't need to stand on a stool in the kitchen to reach the counter.  They'll pedal a bicycle.  Maybe they'll score a soccer goal.  

Someday, you'll put on a superhero costume, and it will just be a costume.

You won't beg for, "Milkies!" with the zeal of an addict.  Your eyes won't glaze over as you guzzle whole milk from a sippy cup.

You'll wake up one day and my magical powers will dry up, when you decide that a kiss from me really doesn't make it all better.

Suddenly, you won't beg for one more story and one more song.

Oh, my sweet Everett, I'd like to say that I have savored every moment of your babyhood, but the truth is, that would be as much of a lie as the one you just told.  You're growing up way too fast, little one.  And, although I am in awe of the amazing little person you are becoming, it hurts my heart just a tad.

Even if you can't really keep your promise, maybe you can keep it for just a little bit longer.

Love,
Mommy

Unsent Letters, October 2014 Edition

Source

Dear Neighborhood Pet,

The first time I stepped outside my front door and smelled dog feces, I didn't panic.  I figured it was just an unpleasant odor wafting from a neighbor's lawn upon the autumn breeze.  When I came out the next day and smelled the same putrid odor, I investigated.

I have now shoveled your excrement daily for a solid week.  As I type this, I'm sure you've deposited a new pile of gross for me to gag over tomorrow.

Stop defecating on my lawn.

I don't own an animal.  Don't make me deal with the unpleasant parts of pet ownership without any of the perks.

Furiously,
A pooper scooper


Dear Pet Owner Who Clearly Doesn't Responsibly Care for Your Animal's Waste,

I will find you.  And when I do, the presents your fur ball has been depositing on my grass are going to be redeposited onto your doorstep.

How do you sleep at night, knowing a poor, unsuspecting neighbor might step in your pet's crap and ruin a perfectly adorable pair of flats?  How?

A one-time dropping I could forgive.  I could give you the benefit of the doubt.  "Maybe," I could gander, "he forgot the doggy bag."  The daily sentence of shoveling someone else's pet's poo?  I just can't make peace with that.

I am being 110% honest when I say that this situation troubles me three times as much as the recent break in down the street.

That's how peeved I am.

Resentfully,
The woman who's probably unknowingly delivered you a baked good at some point, with a smile

P.S.  How can you do this to the person in the neighborhood who shares baked goods?!

P.S. P.S.  Would it help if I left a shovel out for you?  Maybe?


Dear Jamie,

You are a wonderful friend in oh, so many ways, but today you proved your true worth.

When I locked and slammed my front door this morning holding your set of keys, instead of my own, my day flashed before my eyes.  It was a terrifying vision:  screaming children, long hours spent waiting for a locksmith at some point, and lots and lots of me rocking in the fetal position.

Thank you for pulling your secret skill set out of the woodwork and helping me break into my house.  I'll never look at a Disney World key card in the same way again.  Nor a bobby pin.  You're a lifesaver.

With deepest appreciation and gratitude,
The friend you rescued today


Dear Southern Comfort Egg Nog,

Thank you for being my prize for successfully breaking and entering my house.  I know I didn't really deserve a prize, but to quote one of the greatest movies of all time:  "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."  You should get that reference, because you're southern.

And you are oh, so tasty.

Fondly,
One who doesn't need much of an excuse to buy egg nog, even when her house is flooding with Halloween candy

Dear Everett,

Last week we were in the grocery store checkout at the worst possible time of day.  It was almost five o'clock.  I try to never go to the grocery store at such a ghastly hour, when every mother or father is there trying to figure out dinner at the exact same time.  This day, I had forgotten the ginger, and you can't make a pork tenderloin with ginger and honey sauce without it, so alas, there we were.  You and Kaden are usually very well behaved on trips to the grocery store, but this day, you were especially feisty.  He kept head butting you, and every time he did, you would let out a high pitched scream and pull his hair, and then he would scream.  Then, with a perfectly timed sassy spin, the classy lady waiting in front of us would turn around and stare. It was not your brightest moment.  I was standing there shushing you, pushing this gigantic car cart (that was supposed to magically guarantee your civility) with only a two-inch piece of ginger in the basket. I'm pretty sure I had food smeared on me somewhere, and I'm 100% positive that my face was some shade of red.  And of course, just to make the whole experience even more fun, we had chosen the checkout line with the one employee who seemed content to move at a snail's pace.      

And then this little old lady walked up to me.  Here it comes, I thought.  I stiffened.  I was waiting for the classic, "You've got your hands full!" line, or some variation of it.  But instead, she beamed at me, and said, 

"May I rent one of these?  They are the most beautiful children I have ever seen!"  

And you and Kaden stopped and grinned shyly right back at her.  And you waved your chubby fingers and said, "Hi!"

And my heart felt a smidgen of guilt:  that it in this heated moment, I might have wished you both away.  That standing there in aisle three of the grocery store, smooshed between tiered layers of candy bars and magazines, you felt like an inconvenience.  A hindrance.  

When really, this stranger, with her wrinkled skin and graying hair, knew you in that moment better than I did.     

Most of the time I remember, but for a second I forgot.  You are beautiful.  Your brother is beautiful.  And I get to be now, and forever, your Mommy.  

I love you to the moon and back, Evers.

Love,

Mommy

Postal Love for the Month of July

Dear Leather Recliner,

I previously expressed loving sentiment for you here.  While I was obviously twitterpated at the time, the adoration was fleeting.

Fast forward four years, find me no longer pregnant, and suddenly you become far less charming.

Do you know what a swiveling, rocking, and reclining chair does to a mother of small children? It nauseates her.  That's what.  There were days when I thought I might end up in the loony bin before 35 if I had to watch Kaden twirl in you at top speeds one more time, while trying to prevent him from injuring himself or others.  Then Everett discovered how fun it was to spin you, and something had to be done.

We sold you on the 4th of July to a buyer off Craigslist.

There was a moment on the evening of July 3rd, when I wondered if I was making a mistake.  All those comfy pregnancy snoozes did mean something to me.  They really did.

Then, on Independence Day, when your new owner came to collect you, I pointed out the small tear in your upholstery, and she said she didn't care.  Because she has cats.  In the plural.  And I felt guilty committing you to such a fate.  I still kind of do.

But you were so unbelievably ugly.

Fondly,
We'll Always Have the Summer Months of 2010 and 2013



Dear Whoever's Behind the Advertising Campaign for Blue Bell Ice Cream,

Cruel.  That's what you are.

You can't run an ad for Magic Cookie Bar flavored ice cream, then boast about it's delicious flavor combination online, only to not have it at TWO grocery stores.

"Just in time for National Ice Cream Month!" you said.  "In July!" you said.  I didn't even KNOW it was National Ice Cream Month, but I sure wanted to celebrate tonight with a bowl full of "sweet ice cream loaded with graham cracker crust pieces, chunks of dark chocolate, roasted pecan pieces and toasted coconut, all surrounded by a caramel sauce swirl."  Instead, I'm stuck with chocolate chip cookie dough.

What gives?

Sadly,
Disappointed Doesn't Cut It



Dear Husband,

Thank you for driving to not one, but TWO grocery stores at 9:30 at night in search of Magic Cookie Bar ice cream.

I love you.

XOXO,
The Wifey

Are you listening, World? It's me, Katie.

Dear Whoever Owns the White House with the Red Door Right when You Drive into Our Neighborhood,

Please put your shutters back up.  Please, please, pretty please.

I realize we live in Raleigh, not a small Southern town.  It's easy to pretend this is no longer the South, when half of our city's inhabitants are transplants from New York and New Jersey.  We may not have a BBQ joint on every corner serving up vinegar doused pig, but this is still North Carolina, and your house looks naked.

Sincerely,

Just Call Me Scarlet O'Hara

  

Dear Kaden,

When I escorted your chef-costumed self to the library's Storybook Ball last night, your little brother tagging along in what can only be described as a thrown together Cat in the Hat costume, I was thrilled to do so. The event was beyond darling, and I commend our fantastic library staff for putting on such a stellar shindig. There was just one moment that put a damper on the experience.  After waiting in a line for 30 plus minutes to meet Princess Elsa and Princess Anna (something you INSISTED you HAD to do, even after I tried to bribe convince you otherwise), I was a bit thrown off when you voiced that, "I'm just too scared, actually," when we reached the end of the torturous queue.  What gives?

Love,

Mommy        

Dear Homemade Ice Cream at the Wake Forest Festival,

You didn't taste homemade.  And you cost three dollars.

Just saying.

Yours Truly,
Should Have Just Hit up Chick-fil-A on the way Home


Dear Lemongrass Thai Leftovers,

It seems physically impossible, but I am going to venture to say that you tasted even better reheated the next day than you did in the restaurant on Friday night.  And you tasted pretty fantastic at first bite.

Sincerely,
I'll be Back Again


Dear Brucious,

Thanks for treating us to Thai Lemongrass.  We love it when you come to visit.

Love,
Katiewick

Dear Kaden,

I hope when I am old and gray, I can dig up the memory of you in my old IHOP apron, a souvenir from my poor college days.  That, in the recesses of my memory, I'll still be able to see the preschool version of you, my little sous-chef: shaggy, blond hair; gold-flecked brown eyes; chipped front tooth; still wearing pajamas in the middle of the day.  

 Your nose, eyelashes, and cheeks dusted with flour.

 Your little boy fingers gripping a whisk,

 steadying a glass bowl on the counter.

 I won't be able to remember if we made cookies or muffins.  If we baked bread or a souffle.  But that doesn't matter.

 I just want to be able to find that memory of you, standing on a dining room chair so you could reach the counter.  Dozens of memories really, of us creating something in the kitchen together.

I hope I can conjure those up when you are grown, and my heart is aching to feel like a mommy again.

I love you, buddy.

Love,
Mommy  

Letters in September

Dear Paper Gown at my OB-GYN's Office,

I recently got to don you during my six week postpartum visit.  After an unexpected change in my hubby's work from home schedule, I ended up taking my newborn to the appointment with me.  Let's just say that a screaming newborn, lactating mother, and paper don't mix.  It was just one more reminder that a woman, once she has birthed a baby, loses all sense of modesty and dignity.  I wish you'd been fabric instead.  Just sayin'.

Until My Next Yearly Indignity,

A Breast Feeding Mama


Dear Kind Secretary at my OB-GYN's Office,

Thank you for holding my screaming baby at the front of the office, so I could experience my exam room indignity with some dignity.  I'm so sorry that Everett chose the moment of your kindness to explode--leaving you and him covered in feces.  He has impeccable timing.  Thanks for digging through my diaper bag for a diaper, wipes, and new onesie . . . and for sending his laundry home in a bio-hazard bag.  Your ready smile after all of that tells me you really are a genuine angel.

With the Deepest Appreciation Imaginable,

A Woman Still Getting Used to a Baby Who Only Poops Once Every Two Days


Dear Moms Out There Who May be Contemplating the Potty Training of a Little Boy,

When you begin this process, here are some phrases, should your toddler speak them, that will likely strike fear into your minds and hearts:

--"But it's OK to go pee-pee now, because we're in the car!" (Said with a huge grin of knowledgeable pride.)

--"I feel pee-pee coming out!" (Said while nowhere near the toilet, or, my personal favorite, just as you're leaving the house with five minutes remaining to get to an appointment that is at least ten minutes away, while your newborn screams in his car seat.)

--"In my underwear."  (Answered when asked, "Do you feel like you have to poop, or have you already pooped in your underwear?")

--"I had a little accident."

Should your toddler occasionally refuse to use his step stool (as mine does) and instead squat while standing spread eagle on the toilet, you'll get a good laugh.  Try not to let him fall in.

In addition, be prepared for lots of newly discovered "fondling," since that bulky diaper is no longer in the way.

Yes, there are some drawbacks to this process, but there are some positives to this nightmare:

-- There's not much cuter than a narrow hiney in superhero underwear.  It truly brings a whole new meaning to the word adorable.

-- The successes outnumber the accidents, and number two in the toilet is so much more pleasant than number two in a diaper.

-- You have an excuse to stock your freezer with ice-cream as an incentive reward, and there's no reason why you can't indulge in an occasional late night scoop of your own.

-- Suddenly, you will feel accomplished yourself just for tinkling in the toilet.  Your toddler is sure to praise you for doing so, and suggest you put a sticker on your chart to celebrate your success.  A toddler's excitement is contagious for sure.

Lastly, there's something magical about watching your child acquire a new skill and seeing his face light up when he succeeds.  Even when it involves the commode.

Good luck and happy toilet training,

A Mommy Whose Son is on Day Four in Big Boy Underwear


Dear Raw Eggs,

I guess it's pretty clear we're not too worried about Salmonella poisoning around here.

Please don't let us down.

Affectionately,

The Folks in the Family Who Think Beaters are Made for Licking


Dear Kaden,

On Monday when I watched Jamie snap this photo of you, sporting your Elmo backpack, I suddenly  realized that what everyone has been whispering in my ear since your birth is completely true:  I feel like I'm going to blink and you're going to be all grown up.

Monday morning was busy.  We started getting ready for Joy School as soon as you woke up, because it started at 9:00, and you, Mr. Independent with a capital "I," like to do every part of your morning routine yourself.  We still got there late, even though I'd planned to be early, since I was also picking up Mark's little sister to watch while his mommy was your teacher for the day. I spent the morning chasing Princess Mia (her yellow chevron bloomers making my heart think that maybe I still really do want a baby girl) and cuddling Baby Everett, and in a flash it was time to pile back in the car to come pick you up.

I'm so excited you get to spend time with your little friends three mornings a week.

I'm so glad you're going to learn and grow this year.

I'm so glad I get to be one of your teachers and watch that happen up close.

I'm so sad that I'm beginning to realize that the time is soon coming when you'll spend more time with someone else every day than you do with me.

The thought tugs at my heart strings and gives me a lump in the back of my throat.

Today we played "This Little Piggy Went to Market" with Baby Everett's toes, and then I did your toes, too, and you giggled and giggled your best little giggle, like you always do.  But your small, preschool-sized toes suddenly seemed HUGE compared to Ever's chubby newborn ones.

You are growing up so fast and changing so much each day.  I'm so very thankful for the chance I have to witness it as your Mommy.

I love you, Kaden Cub.

Hugs and Kisses,
Mommy


Everett,

My little Evers.  My Bugabaloo.  My Chubster McBubster.  My Rett Rett.

I adored you from the moment you were born, of course, but now I am really starting to like you.  It's so fun watching you grin back at me when I smile and talk to you.

Even at three or four in the morning (when you and I frequently end up streaming So You Think You Can Dance on Hulu, because you refuse to go back to sleep after eating), it's the cutest thing ever.  I just can't be mad at you when you're so stinkin' cute,  and your fat rolls are so delicious to snuggle.

You have me wrapped around your finger, little man.

Love,
Mommy

Dear Archaic Refrigerator,

First of all, you're extremely photogenic, because you look a lot better in this photo than you do in person. I'm not trying to be rude, just honest.

We've been through a lot together over the last ten months, you and I.  Ten months.  That's nearly a year of me almost swearing every time I opened your door.  It's hard to recall every tender, precious moment we've shared, but here are some of the most stellar ones, in no particular order:

Every time I baked anything, it was a guessing game when choosing eggs out of the carton.  Inevitably, a good quarter of them would be frozen, so I had to keep cracking until I found a few that would work.  Thanks for making that game possible.

Remember that one time I made chicken Caesar salad?  And I stored the leftover lettuce safely on your shelf, so I could enjoy seconds for lunch the next day?  Oh, what a delight it was to find my romaine extra crunchy--due to the ice crystals you managed to bestow on the leaves in less than 24 hours.  It's been ever so pleasant wasting so much food during the past year because you continually ruined what was supposed to be tomorrow's lunch or dinner.

Wasn't it funny how we couldn't put anything in your crisper drawers, because they would flood with water?

Really, we couldn't put anything in you anywhere without it at some point being covered with water, which is why half of the labels eventually slid off our salad dressing bottles.  I started organizing groceries in the plastic bags we brought them home from the store in, which was my feeble attempt at trying to keep things dry.

One of my favorite things about you was your missing shelf.

And every time I opened your freezer door, I looked forward to our fated game of catch, since it was one big, shelf-less cavity, too, and its contents would come spilling onto the garage floor.

Oh, that's right!  How could I forget?!  The BEST part about our relationship the last 10 months has definitely been your location.  Outside.  In the garage.  It was always fun explaining to babysitters and guests why you weren't inside the house.  On the other hand, I wonder if we could market an entire line of beauties such as yourself as weight loss tools . . . remember that time I watched an episode of The Walking Dead  late at night?  Right before Chad left for a guy's night out?  And I REALLY wanted ice cream smothered in hot fudge sauce?  But I was way too scared to go in the garage by myself?  Or there was that time I really wanted to bake chocolate chip cookies, but I was too lazy to go collect all the ingredients one at a time from the garage. I think we're on to something here . . .

In all seriousness, you're ancient, and you've more than served your time.  Thanks for at least keeping the bazillion gallons of milk my toddler consumes each week fresh enough for his sippy cups. In your antiquated state, I think we expected a bit too much of you.  You were less than stellar, but you got the job done, and for that I am grateful.  Having said that, I'd like to be the first to wish you a joyful retirement!  May the utility company deliver you to your recycled resting place swiftly, and may you rest in peace.

Respectfully,
The Woman Who's Paid her Refrigerator Dues


Dear Shiny, New Appliance in my Kitchen,

You are shiny and new and in my kitchen.

I think it's safe to say that for me it was love at first sight.

Fondly,

Your Greatest Fan

Unsent Letters, April 2013 Edition

Dear Rash on the Back of My Neck,

You look suspiciously familiar.  And you're starting to itch a little.  Please, please, oh, PLEASE do not be what I think you are.  I just don't think I can handle looking like a leper this early in my pregnancy.  Last time you at least waited until the bitter end.

Sincerely,
A Woman Who's Praying GNC Still Sells Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap


Dear NC Weather,

I think there must be some kind of confusion, so I just wanted to clarify something:  it's April.  Not January.  Not February.  Not even March.  By now, we are supposed to be basking in glorious amounts of sunshine.  Let's get with the program.

I have a lot of reasons I'd enjoy some warmer temperatures, but I think the following two sum up my necessity pretty well:

1)  All of my maternity clothes, with the exception of a few frumpy disasters, are summer pieces.  And I'm tired of wearing pants that cut off my circulation.

2)  I am 100 percent a better mom when I can take my child OUTSIDE.  Seriously.  I'd love to spare him the inevitable future therapy bill, if things in the great outdoors don't perk up pretty soon.

Hopefully,
A Frequent Checker of Weather.com



Dear Pregnancy Dreams,

Wow.  You're intense.  You've all been gems.  Especially the ones featuring random people I went to high school with.  People I didn't even consider friends during my adolescence have been showing up in my REM cycle.  Although, I've got to say, the one about us living in an Iran-occupied United States, while using wheelbarrows full of money to buy groceries was pretty spectacular.  Last night's episode, in which I was trying to dry my wedding dress at the laundromat and running out of time before I had to meet Chad at the altar, was particularly terrifying.  Good thing I always wake up to pee before things get too out of hand.

Yours Truly,
One Wishing for a Peaceful Slumber


Dear Ice,

You make every beverage taste better.  It's true, and I love you for it.  Since we don't have an ice maker right now, and because we've recently splurged and started buying you in bags from the grocery store, you've been especially chew-able.  I'm a woman who loves cold drinks and I don't care who knows it!

Lovingly,
Never Going Back to Luke Warm Tap Water


Dear Split Ends,

I know I owe you a haircut.  I've been unfair.  I've abused you with a blow dryer.  I've damaged you further with a flat iron.  My curling iron has "kicked your trash," as my roommate Jamie used to say.  I'm going to do my best to find someone who can remedy the situation soon.

Regretfully,
One Who Remains Loyal to a Stylist Two Hours Away, and is a Bit Terrified to Branch Out


Dear Cadbury Creme Eggs,

I never even liked you, until I tried one of you that my husband had stashed in the freezer.  It was a moment of desperation.  I needed chocolate and you met that need.  It was love at first taste.  It also further proved that my husband's strange obsession with freezing things that aren't meant to be frozen is usually right on the money.  (With the exception being Oreos . . . I hate it when that man hides my Oreos in the freezer.)  I apologize for my hasty judgement in the past.  I hope my new found love will heal any wounds you  may have suffered.

Fondly,
The One Who's Been Hoarding Her Son's Easter Candy


Dear Refrigerator Still Leaking in My Garage,

Wow.  We bought this house in July.  Not to state the obvious, but you are still there.  Leaking.  In the garage.  Either freezing foods that are meant to be merely refrigerated, or soaking them in pools of water.  There's something really uncool about that, no pun intended.

Distastefully,
The Woman Who Knows She Should Be Grateful You Work at All, but is Kind of Really Sick of You


Dear Kaden,

Today, when you comforted your friend Mark's little sister, Mia, with a toy helicopter, I had a renewed hope that you are going to make the best big brother ever.  Let's put aside all those earlier comments you've made about leaving your brother to live at the airport.

Love,
Mommy

Fatherhood

I think I'm going to put this anonymous note in our neighbor's mailbox this week:

Dear Dad at the End of Our Street,

Almost every time I pass your house in the evening you are playing outside with your kids.  Shooting some hoops, playing street hockey, or doing yard work while they play near by.  It warms my heart.  My husband and I think you are incredibly awesome.  If there were more dads like you in the world, the world would be a better place.  Thanks for the example you set for everyone in our neighborhood.  Thanks for being the kind of father every kid deserves.

Sincerely,

Your Neighbor

During the five years I taught high school English, I met a lot of kids with great fathers.  I met a lot of kids with not so great fathers.  I met a lot of kids who didn't know who their father was.  I met some kids who knew who their father was, but wished they didn't.

I remember a tearful encounter with one sophomore boy who had gone from an energetic, focused hard worker to a lackadaisical, cynical body taking up space in a row of my classroom.  I kept him after class, questioning his behavior and telling him how much I missed the "old him."  He opened up to me, revealing that his father had recently gotten out of prison, and my fifteen year old student had hoped he would be able to develop a relationship with this man he did not know.  Sadly, his father had chosen to return to the same lifestyle that had landed him in prison to begin with--associating with the same friends and participating in the same kinds of activities that would likely land him in jail yet again.  He didn't have time for his 15 year old son.  My heart broke for this lanky sophomore boy who I had come to love in the few months I had been his teacher.  The tears shed that day were not just by him.

I grew up with an exceptional father and had a lot of exceptional pseudo-fathers around me:  uncles, friends, and other family.  When I became a teacher, I quickly realized I'd led a pretty sheltered existence.  I suddenly realized that my life experience wasn't the norm.  

How important is the role of a father?  Of a man?  In our world today, I'd say more important than ever.

The more I think about this little baby boy growing inside of me, the more grateful I become that we're having another little boy who will grow up with an amazing daddy.  I am so thankful that my sons will be raised by a father who loves them and takes the time to be their dad.  To teach them how to be gentlemen in a world that is sometimes crass and unrefined.  To teach them to honor women and treat them with respect.  The world needs more good men, and I want my sons to be some of them.

I think there's a whole generation to follow that will be pretty thankful for that, too.

I'm so thankful for the chance I have to help shape their world as their mommy.  To be their teacher and their friend every day.

Alien-esque baby, sucking his thumb at 18 weeks and 2 days:

Kaden, on our recent outing to Pullen Park:

Suddenly, the boat seemed scary:

And scarier, as it was further away from Mommy:

 Happily removed from the ride early:

I pray every night that we can be the kind of parents who will guide our children to become strong men.

Dear Kaden,

Last night, you woke up in the middle of the night, crying out.  A nasty nightmare was the culprit, and I scooped you up in my arms and held you in your dark room--a sliver of moonlight peeking in through the blinds and a blueish glow from your nightlight helping me see enough to wipe your tear stained cheeks.

Then we cuddled up in the rocking chair in the corner, you and I, with a soft yellow blanket that my grandma pieced together before she died.  And you wiggled and squirmed until you found your comfy place, sprawled across my lap, your head nuzzled close against me, your right arm dangling behind my back.  And I remembered rocking you just like this for so many nights in your infancy.  Before you could tell me about the monsters in your dreams.  When your little legs still fit in the soft circle of my arms while I held you, where now I felt your little toes curled around my calves.  And I squeezed you just a little bit tighter while I sang you lullabies and held your hand.

And I thanked Heavenly Father for my mother's heart.  That in that moment, in the middle of the night, I could long to hold you like that for an hour.  For days.  For weeks.  For months.

My Kaden Boy, I am so blessed to be your mommy.  Sometimes it is scary for me, watching you grow up.  And thinking that someday you will cry about something I can't fix, something that won't be an imaginary monster in the dark.  But I hope you will always know that I will still squeeze you close and hold your hand.

I love you so very much.

Love,
Mommy  

Allow Me to Tell You How I Really Feel . . .Or Write it in a Letter

Dear NY Times Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe,

I have found you.  At last, after years of searching, we're united:  me, the crusader, and you, the Mecca of the classic cookie.  Bernice and I have tried a lot of recipes together, but few have brought me the joy that your sea salt-sprinkled goodness has.  Despite the fact that no one at any store (even the promised Whole Foods) knew what fèves were, my chosen combination of semi-sweet and milk chocolate chips were utterly dreamy.  I'm in love with a cookie and I don't care who knows it!

Love,

A woman with melted chocolate in the corners of her mouth, and an accompanying milk mustache

Dear  Skinny Chunky Monkey Cookies,

I hate to write this directly under a declaration of undying love.  It seems unfair to cast you in the shadow of such grandeur.  Even so, it must be said that you are disgusting.  Nasty.  You in no way live up to your Ben and Jerry's-esque name.  I felt such kinship when I read the blog post of your author.  When she proclaimed that she gained 65 pounds with her first pregnancy, I though, "Ah! A woman who knows her desserts!  I can trust her!"  Sadly, you were a flop.  So much so that we didn't even finish baking you.  Your batter sat on the counter.  I added a few spoonfuls of sugar.  Then an entire cup.  Nothing could be done.  A garbage disposal funeral was your fate.  Adieu!  I shall stick with smaller helpings of calorie-filled goodness in your place.

Sincerely,

A woman who prays her metabolism will never fail her

Dear Directions,

Why do you appear on some things and not on others?  Today, I read you clearly on the back of a bottle of hand soap.  Then, when inspecting canisters of dry shampoo in Target you were no where to be found.  I know how to lather and rinse my hands in the bathroom sink, but something about the idea of a shampoo that requires no shower slightly terrifies me.  Help a sister out!

Sincerely,

Confused

Dear Lady I Almost Collided With in Target,

I realize I almost hit you with my shopping cart, but I didn't.  Therefore, it would have been nice if you're, "It's OK," following my apology had been pronounced in a kinder tone.  Have I almost been rammed into by a psycho in Target before?  Yes.  And when she said, "I'm sorry," I pretended it was, indeed, OK.  At least pretend.  That is all.

Sincerely,

The woman who was trying to remove her sunglasses and feed her toddler goldfish crackers at the same time, instead of watching where she was going

Dear Elmo,

I love that Kaden pronounces your name Melmo.  He is infatuated with your "Emotion in the Ocean" song.  I know it by heart and frequently sing it, even when Kaden's not in the room.

Love,

Kaden's Mommy

Dear Hand Wash Only Label,

LIAR!  Equivocator!  Great deceiver!  For months you have lain in the bottom of my hamper.  Why?  Because I am too lazy to wash you.  Today, I carefully washed the skirt in which you abide, following your directions exactly.  Cold water?  Check.  Hand wash?  Check.  And what happens when I lay you flat to dry (also per your directions?) what was once a cream skirt with a black pattern is now a cream skirt with a bleeding black pattern.  If you wanted to be dry cleaned only, why didn't you just say so?  I wouldn't have held it against you, you just would have had to wait for a few more months in the bottom of the hamper.

Sadly,

Disappointed

My friend told me about this link-up, which prompted me to write letters this Friday, but as you know, this is one of my favorite kinds of posts to write on my blog.  I've been contemplating starting a second blog of daily letters.  What do you think?  Would anyone read it?  

Dear Kaden,

Today you are twenty months and six days old.  Not what one might call a traditional milestone birthday.  There is no special doctor's visit today, we aren't having a party, and there is no lit candle eagerly waiting for you to blow it out.  Today was one of those days when I stop and stare at you, in awe that you are getting so grown up, changing so much every day.   

We went to the library today for story time, only as soon as we rushed into the library (five minutes late because I had to convince you to leave Cougar-your giant pillow pet-in the car), I noticed the quiet.  The library, even though it is always meant to be a place of quiet, is not quiet during toddler time.  And then I realized today is Tuesday and story time moved to Wednesdays now that it is Spring.  You ran up and down the stairs in the story time room, completely unfazed by my mistake, while I scooped up a pile of books.  You climbed into one of the little chairs at one of the little tables, and I thought we were going to share a delightful story time of our own.  Only then you threw a massive temper tantrum, for a reason that is still unclear to me.  So our pile of books stayed on the table, and you were carried back to the car, the sentiment, "NO!  Books!!!" reverberating through the otherwise still library, while I told you there would be no new books to bring home today, because you had chosen to behave badly. 

In the car, you said sorry, and we struck a deal.  If you could behave nicely at the post office, then you could still go to the park on the way home, the one with the shoot ball and the dinosaur slide.  When I asked if you could behave at the post office you said, "Yes!" and so to the post office we went.  While we were there, you drank an entire sippy cup of apple juice and pretended to be bashful, burying your face in my shoulder while the lady behind the counter helped me send peanut butter to Brazil.  It's a tricky thing, mailing peanut butter to South America, but you were a dream child the entire time.  And so, since you kept up your end of the bargain, I kept mine.

The park was almost empty when we got there, except for two rambunctious boys.  You stared at them with wonder, while they slid down the slide head first and jumped from the top of the jungle gym.  You explored and climbed and went down the biggest slide in my lap, like you always do, and suddenly you were climbing to the big slide on your own, a very adamant, "No! No! NO!" being the answer when I asked if you wanted me to come, too.  And then, there you were, standing at the top of a slide that suddenly looked as tall as a skyscraper, with me at the bottom fighting the urge to climb up and stop you.  And then, just as suddenly, there you were, sitting at the top of the slide and counting, "Two! Two! Two!" (because, even though I always count, "One, two, three!" before you slide, two is the only number you say).  And then, there you were, laughing at the bottom of the slide, your little blond head thrown back in a huge chuckle, because you had done something great all by yourself.

Today, when you are only twenty months and six days old, I realize that motherhood is full of tiny goodbyes.  As you have grown older I've said goodbye to so many things already:  the tiny clothes you wore home from the hospital, nursing you in the middle of the night, that fat roll on your wrist that I cried over when I realized it was no longer there.  I love watching you grow, Kaden Cub.  Even though goodbyes are hard, I am so thankful I get to be there for every hello, too.  Today, you said, "Hello, Big Slide, I am big enough and brave enough to play with you."  Who knows what hello I will get to witness tomorrow.

I love you.

Love,
Mommy         

You've Been Lettered

Dear Mackenzie,

Please come back to North Carolina and play with Kaden.  I know he pushed you quite often, and that he was terrible at sharing, but the truth is he adores you.  He kept trying to throw his soccer ball to your picture today (and was quite frustrated that you weren't catching it).  During bath time, I could tell his splashing just wasn't the same.  I hate that you and your cute baby brother have to live so far away.  Colorado's too cold.  Convince your parents to move here instead.

Love,

Your Aunt Katie 

Dear School Secretary,

Let's just say that our 30 second telephone conversation, combined with your snide tone, didn't make me mourn the fact that Friday is my last day at work.  Did no one teach you the golden rule as a child?

Sincerely,

The teacher who thinks she's already stepped up to the plate by not getting a pay increase during the last four years

P.S.  A lot of people, myself included, think you are a meanie.

P.P.S  Since we're being honest, let me get a couple more things off my chest.  Every time you get on the intercom and ask a student to come "have your picture made," a small part of my soul dies.  It's "have your picture TAKEN."  Southern idiosyncrasies are only charming when nice people have them.  Oh, and also, sometimes when you get on the intercom and say, "Teachers, please excuse the interruption," I yell at you, even though you can't hear me.  I do this with students present.  "NO!"  I scream, as I shake my fist furiously.  Because really, let's face it, nine times out of ten is the interruption REALLY excusable?  I didn't think so, either. 

Dear Grant and Jessie Jones,

I think I have single-handedly devoured an entire tier of your wedding cake.  Thank you for getting married, so I can gorge myself with lard-topped divinity.  I know it was Loni who gave the cake to my mother-in-law, but without your joyous union, my current calorie fest would not be possible.  I owe it all to you!

Sincerely,

Someone who is very sorry we're leaving Kinston just as you're moving here

Dear Chad,

I hope you're not expecting to see any wedding cake in the freezer when you get home.  No, seriously, I hope you're not . . . Also, I haven't been on a scale, but I think there's a high probability that I'll be ten pounds heavier by the time you return on Friday evening.  You may have a hard time recognizing me, so I thought I should give you fair warning. 

Love,

The woman who eats another piece of cake every time she starts to feel lonely

Dear Students Who Wrote Nice Things on My Evaluation Forms,

I love you, too.  I am glad that I made a difference for some of you.  On the way to school each day, I prayed that the time I had to spend away from Kaden would be spent blessing the lives of someone in some way.  I know that you are capable of great things.  Believe in yourselves!  I will miss you (even though I won't miss some of your classmates).

Love,

Mrs. R.

Dear Baby Fat Roll That Used to Be on My Toddler's Wrist,

Where did you go?  When did you leave?  The other day as I cuddled with Kaden and read him a story, I saw that you were missing, and I started to cry.  I know my little one has to grow up; I just wish it didn't have to happen so fast (and while I wasn't looking).

Sincerely,

A Nuzzler of Baby Fat Rolls

Dear Single Parents,

Since the beginning of December, I have joined your ranks  four nights a week.  I don't know how you do this all the time, but mad props to you.

Sincerely,

One Tired Mommy 

Dear Publishers of F is for Farm,

My eighteen-month-old received your book as a Christmas gift, and he adores it.  I adore it, too.  There's just one thing:  Why did you choose a pedophile to pose as the farmer inside the barn?  All of the pages have such darling photos, pop-ups, and moving parts.  Imagine my surprise when my little boy opened the interactive barn page, only to see this harrowing sight staring back at us:

That's just plain creepy.  Perhaps you had a hard time finding a suitable farmer to pose for a photograph.  Allow me to make a suggestion:  Drive to central Washington.  Locate a little town called Moses Lake.  I can think of at least a half a dozen older gentlemen who can do the trick.  One of them is my own grandfather.

Sincerely,

A slightly disturbed bedtime story reader

Dear Research Papers,

I know you need to be graded.  I promise you will be finished by Friday afternoon, when grades are due.  Right now I have more important matters to attend to, like writing this blog, perusing Pinterest, and signing random petitions to stop Internet censorship.  

Kindly,

A Procrastination Pro      

Dear Future English Teachers of My Son,

I am not going to make a lot of false promises here.  I know the danger in pledging "my child will never."  I have been warned this phrase can come back to bite you.  Therefore, I will not promise that my child will always do his homework, or that he will never use Spark Notes as a last resort to understand early British literature, or even that he will never talk in class.  He will probably do each of these things.  For this I am sorry.

I can, however, promise you a few things:

My child will never use the f-word repeatedly in your class and then direct the f-word at you when you ask him to leave.

My child will never tell you to "get out of my face" and "mind your own business" when you ask him to put away his cell phone.

My child will never turn and walk away while you are conversing with him individually, trying to help remedy a problem situation.

Here's why I can promise you this:  I am an actual parent.  I understand that my obligations to my offspring extend beyond giving birth.  That means I am going to teach my son to respect not only his teachers but other members of the human race in general.  If my child ever does choose to behave in any of the ways outlined above, I promise you he will be afraid to come home. 

Sincerely,
A teacher who spent her planning period in tears, while filling out discipline forms instead of grading

Letters without the Pesky Stamps

Dear Cute Girl in the Skinny Jeans on the Flight from Salt Lake to Dallas,

Or should I call you the baby whisperer?  Our conversation was short, but you did ask my son's name.  You smiled at him and said, "It's going to be a great flight, Kaden." After which he promptly fell asleep.  For the entire flight.  I know you said you were once a nanny.  I can't afford to pay you, but maybe you'd like to fly with me every time I go home to visit family?

I look forward to flying with you again soon.

Sincerely,

A Mom Who Forgot How Sweet it is to Watch Her Son Sleep in Her Arms 

Dear Grandma on the Flight from Dallas to Raleigh,

Thank you for being a grandma and not a drunk Anthony Bourdain look-alike, who I feared might be a pedophile.  Thank you for letting Kaden peek out the window as often as he liked for the entire flight.  I hope you got to take your bra off when you made it home, as you told me that was what you were most looking forward to.  I can't wait until I'm old, so I can say whatever I want even in public.  You are awesome.

Affectionately,

A Bra-less Woman in Pajamas

Dear Man Who Was Waiting Outside the Airplane Bathroom When Kaden and I Came Out,

I'm sure you were wondering what we were doing in there.

Kaden had a wet diaper that had to be changed.

And then I popped a squat and nursed him right there in that closet of death.

I know it was rude of me to commandeer the restroom for my personal use, while you very well might have needed to desperately tinkle.  I'm sorry, but you try nursing a child in public who is violent while doing so, and refuses to be covered (while maintaining some sense of modesty and privacy).  It's not a pretty sight.  It was a full flight, and desperate times call for desperate measures.  In fairness, I kept it as short as possible and gave him a snack and not a full meal.

Apologetically,

A Milk Mama

Dear Heat and Humidity,

Go away.  I hate you. 

  

I think we all know that in the crazed stupor you are sure to induce for me, I will likely say and do things I can only regret.

Spitefully,

An Adopted Southerner Who Can't Take the Heat

Dear Weeds in My Front Flower Beds,

Are you serious?  Are you SERIOUS?  I know I've been gone for two weeks, but this is just ridiculous.  How did you possibly overtake everything in that amount of time?  Do you realize our yard is directly across the street from the best landscaped yard in the neighborhood?  How do you think your mess makes us look?

Enjoy your reign and pray that the heat wave from hell lasts, because as soon as it's over, you're over.

Sincerely,

The Gardener Who Seems Cursed to Encourage the Undesirable