Dear Internet Friend (you know who you are),

I just want you to know that I now have a new and heightened fear of washing male socks after our discussion of pre teen boys, confiscated tissues and, well, the subject of  (looks around for small children) *masturbation*.

I really, really didn’t need to know that socks have a much better use than housing a foot, or that they are the right shape, size and friction - ability suited to young males.

My laundry days will never be the same again

and

no, I haven’t checked the insides of David’s socks.

thanks for the imagery,

Tiff xx

Dear Noah,

When you are put to bed for a morning nap, it is not an invitation for you to start a conversation about “Roary the Racing Car”. It is not time to start singing your own version of the Thomas the Tank Engine theme song and it is not time to start a discussion about what will be for dinner that night. Sleep time means sleep time, okay? For your  mother, it means time out.

Your co operation on this matter, would be appreciated.

Thank you.

Love Mum xoxo

Dear Children of School Age,

When I am in the hospital with your sister, I don’t want to get frantic phone calls asking where your sneakers may be five minutes before the bus comes.

I don’t want an accusatory phone conversation from your father, when nobody can find their school uniforms. Do not tell your father that someone stole them from the line, or that I didn’t wash them.

You know I did, you saw me do it.

Don’t expect me to be happy with you when I discover the (once were) clean uniforms stuffed underneath your bed.  Not good form, my little ones, not good at all.

Love from the uniform Nazi.

Dear Ivy,

When Mummy puts you to bed, the idea is to stay there all night. It is not to wait until your parents (who haven’t seen each other for a good week and might have been thinking about something other than sleep) retire to the bedroom and then come in demanding back rubs, bum pats and to snuggle with mummies in parental beds.

It’s just not good form to rip your parents off from… ahem… a good night’s slumber.

That’s all I have to say about that, other than stop it (please).

 Love you lots,  Mummy xx

Dear Ivory Tower Guy,

I do not like you.

The end.

Actually, not the end.

Just a thought for you.

If it were your sick child (assuming you can get off your high horse long enough to procreate) wouldn’t you want the opportunity to make him or her better?

Yeah, I thought so.

Seeing as you are somebody high up on the proverbial ladder, it probably wouldn’t  be a problem for you though, would it?

You know, rates for mates and all.

Anyhow, I still don’t like you .

signed,

Sick of Sick.

Dear David,

I know Father’s Day is next week and, day - um, you are the finest father in the universe but my birthday is also coming and I hope you are going to spoil me rotten.

I just need to know in advance, okay?

I don’t want any nasty surprises on the day. I can’t take any more let downs.

Also, our 15th anniversary is the week before.

Don’t forget

and I hear diamonds are a girl’s best friend.

Another thing, don’t sigh loudly when you read this ( I can hear you) and make that exasperated expression that you love to use, when there is a suggestion that copious amounts of money needs to be spent.

It won’t curry you any favours, if you get my drift.

Just so you know,

Your loving wife xx