Dear Cherished Children,

home insemination Kit

It’s time for a heart-to-heart. I thought we were a united front, a quirky little tribe navigating this wild adventure together. Apparently, I was mistaken.

Now, I’m not saying I’m a flawless parent—far from it—but must you be my personal paparazzi, broadcasting my mishaps to the world? There’s already a long line of critics waiting to judge my parenting skills. Can’t I catch a break from my own family? I mean, I did give you life and keep you fed (mostly), so I thought you’d have my back. Yet, you seem to delight in spilling the beans about my so-called “missteps” (which are mostly just misunderstandings). Seriously, can you just keep some things between us?

For instance, if you get off the bus and I’m not waiting there like a superhero, how about walking toward our home where you’ll eventually see me hurrying your way, instead of throwing yourself onto the neighbor’s lawn like a dramatic scene from a soap opera?

And please, must you bring up every little thing in front of our friends? “Mommy forgot picture day” and sent you to school in a tattered shirt with messy hair? Let’s set the record straight: I didn’t “forget” picture day. I just refused to shell out $50 for photos of you looking less than your best against an artificial backdrop after we just did a family photo shoot outdoors. Also, I didn’t forget to give you money for the school book fair. If you wanted classics like Little Women, that’s a conversation, but a yearbook of Disney stars? Sorry, I’m out of cash.

Thanks for that lovely Mother’s Day card filled out by your preschool teacher, noting that “Mommy’s favorite thing to do” is sleep. Maybe you could’ve mentioned that Mommy hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in over seven years thanks to tiny people like you with imaginary ailments and made-up nightmares. If everyone could just sleep in their own beds, I might actually catch a few z’s!

And about those Happy Meal toys? Let’s keep the frequency of our drive-thru dinners a secret, shall we?

Oh, and when your art project calls for making drums from household items, please don’t suggest using “Mommy’s empty wine boxes.” First, Daddy drank some of that wine too, and I had plans for those boxes—specifically, to create my own fort, which I’m calling Mommy’s House of Zin.

Let’s also tone down the dramatics. Telling your teacher you can’t raise your arm because of a “horrible sunburn” from my sunscreen application? Come on, kiddo. You were outside for half an hour, and your shoulders are barely pink! Please, if you’re going to report me to child services, at least mention how I was “trying to kill you” that time I pulled over to switch you and your brother so he wouldn’t throw up.

I’m not claiming to be the perfect mom—I make my share of mistakes, and the Tooth Fairy’s absence last night? Yeah, that was on me. But you’re alive and relatively well-adjusted, so I consider that a win. If you really need to air your grievances, perhaps jot them down in your journal for your future therapist instead of sharing my parental blunders with the neighborhood.

And when you do that, don’t forget to make a copy for me to read back to you in 20 years when your child complains to Grandma about how they had to buy cafeteria ice cream because you never pack a proper lunch.

With all my love,
Mom

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Summary: A humorous letter from a mom addressing her kids’ tendency to share her parenting missteps with others, asking them to keep family matters private while highlighting her love and dedication to them.