Dear boys,
I want to start by saying how proud I am to be your mom. Honestly, I wouldn’t trade the experience of raising four lively sons for anything. You bring so much joy, cleverness, and kindness into my life that it’s hard to express it all adequately.
But let me be clear: your knack for destruction is testing my patience. I’ve created a little mental escape for myself—let’s call it my “happy haven.” This imaginary retreat is a quaint cottage, beautifully decorated and set against a stunning ocean view. Here, there are no toys scattered everywhere, no sounds of chaos—just the gentle rustle of grass, blooming wildflowers, and the occasional distant gull. It’s a peaceful sanctuary I visit whenever I have to step over the latest mess you’ve made.
This lovely cottage is filled with warm colors, expansive windows, and immaculate white furniture. I can picture my perfectly curated coffee table adorned with elegant glass trinkets and well-placed books—silent companions that are oh-so-important. Yes, your rambunctious antics have driven me to this daydream, but reality always snaps me back. Just yesterday, I found myself standing in three inches of toilet water that had somehow made its way down the hallway after you decided to flush a squirrel (yes, a squirrel) and last week’s underwear.
Consider this a fair warning: your mother is keeping track of everything you break. And trust me, there will be consequences.
So, heed my words. If you don’t change your ways, one day when you have your own place, I might just show up unannounced to wreak a bit of havoc. Picture this: I arrive with a warm smile, a hug, and a plate of your favorite cookies. You’ll think I’m there to shower you with love (and I am!), but little do you know, I’ll be pouring something unsavory into your shoes while you munch away in your kitchen.
I might take apart your lawn mower and use the blade to carve into your prized tree. Your favorite cooking pot? It will be boiling a rather unfortunate roadkill possum. And don’t even think about your precious electronics; they won’t stand a chance. I might launch a NERF gun straight at your brand-new TV, and I assure you, it will shatter spectacularly.
While you’re busy cleaning up the mess, I’ll leave a trail of grape jelly handprints on your couch, etch my name into your dining table, and hide a stick of butter in your washing machine. I might even sneak a few batteries from your devices and drop them into your fish tank. And just when you think it’s all over, I might decide to spend the night.
As you drift into dreamland, I’ll be downstairs, strategically placing a hot iron on your hardwood floors, ensuring they end up warped. Your couch cushions? They’ll be unstuffed, and sugar will find its way into your DVD player. I’ll make sure your lamps crash to the floor, mirrors shatter, and I’ll leave a sandwich hidden in your winter coat. I may even smear VapoRub across every flat surface.
Now, you might be relieved to think, “At least she didn’t touch my car!” Oh, but I did. I made sure to scrape it deeply with a garden trowel and siphon out your gas. You’re going to start your day on empty.
Let me be clear: no matter what you destroy, my love for you will never diminish. Even if you accidentally burn down the house (and with your track record, it’s a possibility), I will still be grateful to be your mother. But rest assured, it will all go on the list.
Love you always,
Mom
P.S. Those cookies I brought over? I may have licked them just a little.