Message from the "Land of No"

An Open Letter to Mishamo

Dear Misho,

Okay buddy. We need to talk. You’re losing it and so am I. Tensions are high, misunderstandings amuck. I'm not the good guy anymore. I swear you flipped me off last night as I lovingly lowered you into your crib. My imagination? Or is toddler digital dexterity that advanced? Whatever. Message received.

Here’s the deal - The "House of Mama" was built in the "Land of No." For you my dear friend, I can't be the fun child care worker, the goofy therapist, the kooky aunt. I’m your mother. I throw down the law and have to somehow make it stick. I have a job, and you’re it. Sorry to say, there’s not much flexibility in my job description. I can’t cut corners or let you take your bath totally unattended. I can’t call in good dog Carl to watch you for the afternoon.

Here's my pre-emptive list of apologies for your reading pleasure. If and only if you make it to the age of eighteen without loss of limb, your hair, any of your toe or fingernails, and/or your mind.

1. I apologize for not letting you explore electrical outlets. I know. They’re fun. Who doesn’t want to put something pokey and metal into small holes in the wall.

2. I apologize for getting mad when you hit me. It sucks and I think you’re kind of a a-hole right after impact but I understand. I’m this big-ass lanky lady towering above you monitoring your every move. It’s all you got in your communicative arsenal to tell me to eff-off. Touche.

3. I apologize for the involuntary menu of foods and nibbles. Actually, no. I don’t apologize for this. We’re trying to feed you. Work with us and give it a shot.

4. I apologize for leaving each day for work and then expecting you to embrace my existence when I get home. This one probably hurts me more than you. But I do work from home, so the commute is short and you do get my squishies throughout the day. So. Yeah. I shouldn't feel guilty, right? You still love me, right? I'm not hurting you or forcing you into therapy, right? VALIDATE ME! VALIDATE ME!

5. I apologize for resenting Dada because you like him better. Who the hell does he think he is? He comes home at the end of the daily rituals, swoops in and looks like the fricking hero. Dada should write Mama a letter.

6. I apologize for not allowing you to insert things in the orifices of our dogs. This is non-negotiable. You don’t believe me now, but the consequences would never be good. I must resist.

7. I apologize for wiping your butt with a cold moist toilette. That just sucks. Plain and simple.

Overall, it’s not that I want or should apologize for these so called parental offenses, I just understand why they piss you off.

Freedom will come once we can talk things out and you are able to convince me that you won’t kill yourself at every turn. You'll see. Compared to other moms, I am downright revolutionary. Go ahead, hold a pencil in your teeth while climbing the stairs in no slip socks, scale the couch like Jason Bourne about to pounce, eat many things, not all, but a lot of things right off the floor, stand on table tops and find glasses of something for me to rhyme with floor.

Dude.. I rule. You’ll see. And if you don’t, my time will be spent devising ways to embarrass you until my last dying breath.

Go ahead. Test me.

Love Mama.