Sunday, June 19, 2005

For Duckling

Dearest Duckling,

There will come a day when you show interest in boys, when you are somewhere around 35 years old, and think about having “relations”. This letter was written to you while the memories of our recent road-trip together are still fresh in my mind. Think of this memoir, my dear daughter, as form of birth control or at the very least insight into what your life might be like should that the little rubber receptacle break.

As we all settled into the back-seat of the Mommy’s car we issued Daddy the “home Jeeves!” command. Nestled between the car-seats of you and Peanut I wondered how it was that I was having to enjoy the fabulousness of my new luxury vehicle in the least comfortable position out of the four occupants. I didn’t have long to ponder as you handed me “Giggle, Giggle, Cluck” for an unprecedented half a dozen readings in the first 15 minutes of our two-hour car ride.

When the humorous antics of duck and the other farm animals ran dry for you I offered you every toy made by the Chinese out of brightly colored plastic that had ever been mass produced. Methodically, each one of these was ungratefully launched to the floor of my car without so much as a moment of playtime. Finally the toy that provided us with twenty minutes of silent enjoyment was a white napkin with ham residue and grape stains on it.

Soon the napkin lost its novelty and it was at this point that you decided pulling my hair was the most fun you could think of. Calming explaining that I didn’t like that game you eventually released your death-grip on my rather expensive haircut.

Having exhausted all of the toy and book options in the car you began singing “The Pootie Song”, “pooooeeeee, pooooeeee, poooooeeee.” Since it is fact that Pooties only live in cribs of little girls I told you to suck on your fingers for the time being to which you responded by singing the second verse of “The Pootie Song”.

Being able to stand it no more I looked lovingly, but firmly, into your beautiful brown eyes and said, “Your mother is going to get drunk tonight. Are you proud of yourself? That’s what you’ve driven me to.”

Quietly you slipped your petite index finger into you mouth and stared at me with those sad baby eyes.

I’m sorry to say the return trip wasn’t much better. After foregoing an afternoon nap and making Mommy most proud by not only flirting with the hot young men at your uncle’s engagement party, but persuading them to push you around the yard for hours on end in your cousin’s stroller, it was time to go home. I took up my seat, again, in the least luxurious position in the car. As you were busy flashing random partygoers with your bellybutton, you couldn’t have been bothered to eat at the party, so we stopped at a gas station for food but all they had was string cheese. Three minutes later we added some coin to Ray Kroc’s pocket by purchasing a Four Piece Chicken Nugget Happy Meal with a “SharkBoy & LavaGirl” action figure.

As we finally made our way on to the toll way your precious little lips flattened out as you proceeded to grunt and push out a poopie. Once again we found ourselves on the side of road where Mommy witnessed a horrific scene as Daddy changed your crappy nappy on the leather center console of my beloved car. But you’re worth it honey.

Back on the road, it was bed-time. I tucked you in and handed you Cashew and Pootie.

Thinking with a full tummy and empty large intestine that you might be ready to drift off to Sleepytime Land to dream about sandboxes and a never-ending box of Goldfish to munch on, I rested my weary head on your car seat. Not a moment later did I feel something wet pressed to my nose. So generously were you sharing your sucked on Pootie with me.

This long trip culminated with Mommy resting her head between her legs singing along to “Delta Dawn” and “Jose, Cuervo, You Are a Friend of Mine” and you sweetly falling asleep twenty minutes before we arrived at our home.

With all my heart, I love you and hope this serves as insight to what your life could be like if you choose to do dirty things with boys.