Open Letters

Dear Utah,

Sigh. We're breaking up. We're separated. And, okay, so I'm not actually leaving, but we're going to have to be one of those couples who sleep in different rooms and see other people but stay married for the children. Last year you decided it was important--necessary, even--to snow on November 5. I rebuked you. You listened and kept the snow out of the valley until an acceptable date. December, maybe. Therefore, the only logical explanation for why, on God's normally green earth, you would snow on October 27, is that you just don't care about our relationship. You care more about your lucrative ski season. You care more about, I don't know, the employment of snow plow operators. You don't care about me.

I will admit that the presence of snow--that is sticking, mind you. Sticking!--was made exponentially easier by the fact that a certain three-year-old I know was thrilled beyond belief and screamed, "It's h-no-ing!" (S is still replaced by H at the beginning of a sentence.) And did he ever have fun playing in it for the ten minutes that I let him before I brought him back in to nurse his swine flu. And did Matthew ever look adorable with his snow hat tied on. But, you and I both know it's not fair to use the children to pit us against one another. Foul play!

Anyway. I'm giving you back your ring, moving my stuff into the guest room, and getting separate bank accounts. It's over. I can't stay in such an unhealthy relationship. I just can't keep pretending you care about me. I can't ignore the fact that you just don't love me anymore.

Signed,
Your Ex.

*****************************************************
Dear The Rock Star,

So. Um. The other day, you crawled up on my lap and said, "Mommy, when I was born at the hospital, why did you take your underwear off?"

Is it too late to have a C-section? It is. Well, just thought I'd ask. Not wanting to lie to you and hoping you'd be happy with my answer and run off to play Geo Trax, I replied, "Well, so that I could have you, of course."

"No, no, no," you continued, "after I was born. After I was born why was your underwear off?" Son, I was confused. Trust me, after you were born, my underwear was not off. It was ugly and it was mesh and it had ice in it but, seeing as how I couldn't move faster than a three-toed sloth while I was in the hospital, I kept the actual taking off of the underwear to a minimum.

Still, I answered, "Um. I guess I took it off so that I could go potty." This satisfied your curiosity and you left me alone. But let me tell you, never did I wish I'd had a C-section until that moment. Because while, at three, it might be less traumatic for you to hear the truth about from whence you came than to hear a tale about your mommy getting sliced open, at ten or eleven you might wish you'd just been yanked out of my abdomen. Ah well, too late for a Cesarean now.

But stop asking questions that make my breath catch in my throat and I'll buy you a Shetland pony or a Corvette or something. Deal?

Love,
Mommy

***********************************************
Dear Tamiflu,

My fever is gone--for now. I think you're working. So, thanks for that. But why is it that if I try to stand for longer than twenty minutes at a time I feel like I was on the losing end of dog fight?

Affectionately,
Pig Flu Infested 28 year old