Sunday, March 18, 2012

An Open Letter to Kid B - love Auntie Tay....

Prepare yourselves..... If you need to pee, do it now, or else you may pee yourself laughing.

My BFF Tay wrote this letter to Kid B last weekend while I spent time on the couch attempting to feel better.  AND she said I could share it with you!  Best.friend.ever.  Maybe someday I'll share her letter to R as well, if you are lucky.

An Open Letter to Kid B:

So, your mom is home sick on the couch this weekend.  This means that I don't get to see her at the Saturday morning Piyo class we've attended together for a little over a year now.  Thus, I am left with lots of free time to ruminate about some complaints I have to lodge against you.

You may read this later on and think to yourself, "First of all, KID B??? Could they have picked a more sterile nickname?  Not something more affectionate and/or food related like, "peanut" or "lima bean" or "knife sharpener"??  Well, ya see, your dad really liked the Radiohead reference. (Radiohead is this band that was popular like 25 years ago before computers could just read our thoughts and we still had to type words and the internal combustion engine still existed. Look those things up in your WikiGoogle Brain-Chip App once you return to your floating bedroom in space.) And, since we all like your dad and his twisted way of thinking, we went with it.  (Straight up: once, with no prompting or regard for what the rest of us were talking about, your dad addressed the dinner table crowd with, "So, Mrs. Doubtfire.  You guys all knew that was Robin Willliams the whole time, right?"  No explanation, just a random question.  [You may recognize the name 'Robin Williams' from all the news reports a few years back exclaiming that they had, in fact, proved he was the missing link.  That was a big day for science, man.])  Long story short: blame your dad for the whole "Kid B" thing.

Second thing you may wonder while reading this: what kind of sick person lodges complaints against the unborn??  TA-DAHHH! That's me, Auntie Taylor!  By the time you read this you'll realize I'm generally reserved in a way that YOU KNOW there's a lot more goin on upstairs than my actions ever betray.  But, I'm mostly harmless.

When your brother was just a wee little "knife sharpener" I also composed a letter to him, so this is a ritual.  I complained about his late arrival.  You see, we had it in our heads that he'd arrive early.  Cut to him being 4 days late and really messing up our plans. On the day he arrived I was gonna take a leisurely drive through the country; maybe go duck hunting or visit a cigar store.  But he had other plans.  So, there I was, sitting in a hospital waiting room til 5 in the morning while my "allergies" took the express train to "full-blown sinus infection."

That wasn't even the worst part. I imagined the room that the Welcoming Station sent me to would be full of friends and family, chattering away with excitement.  We'd maybe start a water balloon fight or a Raisinette throwing contest.  Jokes about dirty diapers and bottle duty, har har har.  You'll sympathize with me when I tell you the room I actually arrived at was at the end of a deadly silent hallway and eerily devoid of any traffic.  It was not until I heard your mother breathe out that I realized I'd been sent to Ground Zero: The Birthing Room.  Flop sweat/panic attack/existential crisis ensued.  I gathered up the courage to knock on the door.  Your dad answered and we just stared at each other with an intensity only matched by two naive teenagers drafted into Vietnam.  Not sure of much, just that a) we'd never be the same after this; and, b) this might actually be a nice place to visit under different circumstances.  He directed me to the waiting room.

Which is where things got really bad.

Your brother was said to be arriving at midnight.  I assume he was "arriving" in a limo and that his driver "got lost," cuz Homeskillet never showed up til well past 3 am.  And there I sat.  Waiting for him.  Watching "Girls Gone Wild."  With your grandfathers.  Plural.  As in, both of them.  Kid B, I tell you, the whole scene was bad news bears.

Anyhoooooo, I am actually here to complain about you and your mom and the way you both embarrass the crap out of me at the gym.  First, keep in mind the mellow personality I've alluded to. You'll never catch me yelling HOO-RAH! when I'm chilling with my Marine Corps buddies, or dancing to "IT'S PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME!!" with my over sized foam banana friends.  Just not me.  So, at the gym and most everywhere else, I like to just hang back, stay in my lane, not be bothered.
It's such a great plan until I look over and see your mom, eight months pregnant, gettin her Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson on: flexing, preening, chewing on 12 pound weights.  Throwing out The People's Eyebrow.  Full on power trippin, slammin folding chairs into the mirrors and screaming, "CAN YOU TELL THERE'S A FETUS I'M COOKIN?????" (Those jokes will be so much funnier if you look up videos of The Rock and his catchphrases. Man, writing for the future is so hard. You're already more savvy and worldly than me and it is SO intimidating.)
I'm pretty much instantly demoralized. I'm there, all, "ehhh, today maybe I give it a 40% effort? I'll try anything once." Then, there's your mom, berating herself for not winning a planking contest. With a belly full of human being. I mean, she won't even be slowed down by the enormous physical burden of growing new life.  My tank top comes untucked and I'm psychologically unglued for a solid 36 hours.
I swear, one time, I fell out of sequence with the rest of the class and your mom's shin brushed *thisclose* past my nose and then you spit on your ultrasound picture, threw it at me, and yelled, "GET YOUR SH*T TOGETHER, CHUMP! I haven't seen such pathetic form since I watched my brother's classmates play Simon Says!!!" You and your mother are pretty hardcore.
But, these are also the great things about your mom. She works hard and plays hard. But she's chill. She lets me be mellow instead of kicking me for not being as laser-focused as she is. She knows I like to circle the block a few times instead of jamming my car into park and bursting right through the front door.  It's why we've been friends FOREVER. (25 years, 6 months, 15 days. But who's counting??) 
These traits will serve you well in life. You're not gonna see it this way, of course, but your mom will totally let you be who you are and not be too critical one way or the other. If you're chill, she'll nudge you when you need it but she'll never cross that line into bullying. (You have no idea how many grown adults still don't understand this distinction.)
On the other hand, if you turn out to be an intensely driven, wanna-be wrestler, she'll be the first one to drag you off the ropes and give you pointers: "You are swinging that dining room table all wrong! Here, watch me. Go get your dad and I'll show you how to really knock someone out!"
Then, as your father regains consciousness, she will stand over him and ask, "....So, in knew that was me the whole time, right?"
In summation: Dial it back, fetus.  You make me look bad.
Auntie Tay


  1. Notes from the blogger: It was a 15 lb weight and I totally would have won the planking contest if I had known how much longer the other people were going to last. I decided to stop before my back started hurting, from the extra weight in my midsection. kthanxbye. :)

  2. Hilarious Tay! Can't wait to meet you, Kid B!

    And Chelle, can you tone it down a notch? Because your lazy sister hasn't worked out in months!