Tag Archives: Letters

Who Snuck the Hooch to the Baby?

Dear Baby,

Last night after our midnight bladder emptying, I settled onto the couch so Kiefer could actually sleep while I spent the next 2 hours trying to find a remotely comfortable sleeping position. (Which I now know is impossible.)

About 20 minutes later when I finally resigned myself to the fact that I was as comfortable as I was ever going to get, you started hiccuping.


And you kept hiccuping for-ev-er. So I can only assume you’ve been drinking.

You’re in sooooo much trouble. I thought I had more time before we needed to have the Don’t-Drink-Until-You’re-21 talk.

They grow up so fast....

They grow up so fast….

I can handle a lot:

  • The midnight pee breaks.
  • You pressing on my lungs so I can barely breathe.
  • You refusing to move when Boo touches my tummy, so Radley can endlessly taunt him with: “I’ve felt the baby move and you haven’t.”
  • You making it impossible to find a comfortable sleep position.

What I cannot handle is you throwing in my face that while you apparently had an all-night kegger, I’ve been deprived of key lime pie martinis and blueberry margaritas for months. MONTHS!

If I can’t drink, you can’t drink, and I don’t appreciate you throwing your drunken hiccups in my face…er, tummy.

You’re grounded until further notice.


Your Mama

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “If you did not eat the entire candy bar within 24 hours of receiving it, then we can no longer be friends.”—PinotNinja

Help! My Baby is Twerking

Dear Baby Girl,

1:30 AM is not a good time to start twerking or doing the Harlem Shake in my tummy. Please go to sleep.

I have a feeling this won’t be the first time we have this conversation.


Your Mama


This is an old pic. The little stinker refuses to be in a good position for the ultrasounds. We’re 30 weeks.

Dear Boobs

Dear Boobs,

Throughout this pregnancy so far, we’ve had a love-hate relationship. At first, I hated how sore you were, but I loved that you grew.

Then you started overflowing over the tops of my bra, and I had to buy new bras.

Now I’ve had to replace my new bras with even newer bras of a bigger size.

Boobs, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but bras are ‘spensive. Please stop growing.

Also…Kiefer is staring…all the time.

Thank you,


Favorite Comment From Last Post: “No movie maker worth his salt waits until 30 minutes into a movie to have the obligatory witches-performing-C-section scene. That shit’s gotta happen during the opening credits or I’m going to go get some popcorn.”—1pointperspective

Your Queue Has Been Reordered

Dear Everyone Else in the Entire World Other Netflix Subscribers,

I need your help. It’s nearly Halloween, and I just started my annual Halloween movie marathon.

Oops…. My bad.

Last year I watched the Scream series, the year before was Friday the 13th (which was insane because there were 12 movies), and the year before it was Halloween.

This year I’m watching Final Destination. That’s 5 movies. I think I can watch 5 movies in the two remaining weeks. Except I’m traveling for 7 of those days.


So no one else should rent those movies from Netflix. I can’t have “Short Wait,” “Long Wait,” or “Very Long Wait” popping up in my queue.

Seriously. Whoever has Final Destination 3…send it back ASAP. Did you put it in the mail? You did? Thanks! There’s a red envelope with a shiny (ooooo, shiny!) foil Pop-Tart package coming your way.

Just in case that’s not enough, here’s a quick Movies Teach Us post about the first Final Destination:

  • Never rip an old flight ticket off your luggage.
  • The Candyman also works as a mortician. (::shudder::)
  • Never go to Paris.



My Cat’s Role Model Is Mike Tyson

Dear Esme,

W. T. F.

You suck.

I’m so mad I can’t even talk to you right now.

Not Sincerely,


Ms. Appear (We are no longer on a first name basis.)

Does this look infected to you?

Dear Esme,

I’ve calmed down a little, but you still suck.

What were you thinking? I’ll tell you what you were thinking: You weren’t thinking.

When I am laying on the floor doing crunches, I am off limits. Do not jump on my head and attack my ponytail. My ponytail is not your toy.

I do not appreciate the giant gash you left in my ear the day before BlogHer. If I wanted my ears pierced, I’d go to Claire’s thankyouverymuch.

As punishment, you are no longer allowed to hang out with Mike Tyson…ever again. Don’t even speak his name to me.

In the future, please refrain from scratching me and keep your paws claws to yourself.



PS: You’re still in trouble.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “So if I go into a vodka-induced coma, I’m going to have to hope I have more than little boys around. Wow. That MIGHT be the creepiest-sounding thing I’ve ever said.”—Go Jules Go


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