Love Letters/Hate Mail

Dear Man at the Post Office,
Please know that when you walk by with a towering chocolate ice cream cone, my son will cry and beg for a similar confection for the next half hour. I might not like you for your unconscious offense.

Dear Hockey Team (aka "Pioneers"),
Why have we lost five games in a row? You are all great players...well not you Aaron, but you're learning, like me (but in my head I'm better than you, at least I don't steal the puck from my own teammates)...And why the cold shoulders? Is it violating hockey code to get chummy whilst putting pads on/taking them off? Art, you don't seem to have a problem stripping down, I might not ever look at a middle aged heavyish bare-chested man the same. Bradley, wow that was a lot of cuss words in one breath last night when our team helped the other team score. I admit that it crossed my mind several times last night after the slaughter that maybe I was the one who dropped the ball (or missed the puck), five too many times. But there was a serious lack of goals, too, and those were not my job - I'm defense for a reason.

Dear Laundry,
I might hate you, but I love how all the little shirts and pants disperse themselves into four neat, albeit towering, piles. Really. I love those four piles.
p.s. Explain to me how Bekah has only one pair of underwear for a week? Please tell me the washer is eating the other six pairs...

Dear Marianne,
You made my night last night when you willingly ate more than one bite of avocado. You and I might have both been covered in green mush, but there were officially six bites of avocado in your tummy! Now please open up for pears or bananas or sweet potatoes!

Dear NieNie,
I entered your "Motherhood is" essay contest and I would really like to win. I hope you'll agree because I'm already planning the conversation we'll share on Mother's day. It'll be all about your baby without any awkward burn questions, I promise. If I don't win I'll just have to tell myself that you never got my email...how could you not love an essay that begins with spit up?

Dear Trees,
Rus and I spent a fortune on you last week. We are reversing the horrible decision Rus's grandpa made to never plant a single tree on this property four decades ago. So please do your part and grow fast. Like treehouse-next-year-fast. Rus will water you and you will grow. End of discussion.

Dear Beau,
I know that in your mind my job description is thus: "Mom will play with Beau at all times and in all things and in all places," but I'm afraid you didn't read the fine print which reads: "Except when there is laundry to do, dishes to wash, floors to clean, toilets to disinfect, errands to run, other kids/husband to please, or on rare occasion, personal interests to pursue." I'm sorry. I really do like legos. And monsters.

Love,
Keri/Mom