An open letter to the crack whore who marries Boy, from a grateful mother-in-law

July 16, 2033

Dear Madam:

Oh. I'm sorry - is "Madam" rude? A little too ... um, relevant? I wasn't sure exactly sure how to address you. Crack whore seemed a bit strong, really. A tad, um... harsh. Would CW be OK? I do apologize. Man and I just aren't too familiar with these kinds of things, and had never really envisioned becoming so, either, when our sweet little Boy was placed in our arms for the first time all those years ago. You know - it's the same for everyone really. You count the fingers, toes, and when they're OK, it jumps right to dreaming of him as a captain of industry, doctor, maybe even lawyer, all because of your many strenuous efforts to secure the best preschool and baseball camp in town. And read a lot of the good doctors Seuss and Brazelton.

Well, that's what we, in our innocence, thought, CW.

Apparently one has to do a little more than that, but he was such a little shit, an impossible child, a difficult, a headstrong, a willful, an independent child, he really wore us down.

I suppose we should have known there would be problems, CW. There were hints - when even the OB is reduced to obscenities trying to yank the 10-pound frigger's darling's head from where it's lodged in my rib cage, and the sight of it all causes a nurse to actually faint right there on the operating floor, I suppose we should have known it was only the start of a tough road ahead. I guess I could have considered crack to smooth the edges a bit, which is clearly the way you've managed, right? I mean, who else but a mother or a crack whore could love him?

So I do thank you. We really needed a break, CW, and while the state pen took him for a couple years there, Man and I needed a more permanent solution, and are grateful for your willingness to stoop beneath your social strata to take him on. We're just incredibly desperate blessed he found you.

Lest you think we're just awful parents, his sister didn't turn out this way. Oh, sure, now Girl had her difficult moments in the pre-teens, but nothing that couldn't be resolved with a little w(h)ine, on my part. She's now a successful surgeon, who in her spare time fills concert halls with fans eager to hear her play the piano. (We were able to get her to practice.)

But Boy, well, oh, boy. His musical efforts never progressed much beyond smashing the toy flute into assorted toddlers' heads despite time-outs and such, and later chanting at the top of his lungs, WE WILL... WE WILL... ROCK YOU. There was also a stint of Blake, after American Idol, way back in 2007, but the constant disagreement with him over whether the lyrics really consisted of Chicken My Heart instead of Shot Through the Heart only served to wear Man and I down further.

Ah, yes, there was many a time Man and I combed through his hair, looking for an answer: the 6-6-6 that must be branded there. We never found it, but really, CW - look at the glint in his eye, even in this picture of him at 6 years old - how can you doubt it's there, somewhere?






So thank you, CW. And truly, let me apologize, as well, for all our many failures preparing him to be a good husband.

For one, I am terribly sorry that I was unable to teach that little shit child how to flush a toilet.

We tried pleading, bribing, yelling. None of it worked, CW. In all honesty, I accept this may have somewhat been my fault, what with my OCD obsession with hand washing, desire to eliminate germs, I made everyone wash their hands for everything, even just for looking at the dog. This may have spurred some natural defenses on his part, including an ability to pee without touching anything in the bathroom in order to avoid washing hands.

It was hard to argue with the kid, hands up in the air (good practice for later, it turns out, what with his arrests), pants around his ankles, straddling the toilet, bent slightly at the waist, the dinkster pointing straight down into the toilet. "I touched nothing," he'd declare. "So I'm not washing." And well, he was right. Right? So what could you do?

So I am sorry that you now need to zip through the house before guests arrive, checking potties to make sure there are no surprises. Because who needs one more thing to do when you're expecting guests? Though I guess it's possible your gang members friends aren't too particular. And on the plus side, all the hand-washing really did result in fewer colds, so Kleenex consumption was down and I'm sure you'll appreciate the savings in paper goods what with the high cost of drugs these days.

Have you had any luck getting him to wear anything but underwear, CW? Frankly, we considered it a battle won that the underwear were even on, most days. I just settled for buying bigger styles, like boxers, so we could pretend they were just shorts. I don't think the neighbors were fooled, really, given the way they'd always nervously clutch their own children a little closer when Boy ventured outside. Ah well. You pick your battles. And there were just so many.

Like the way you'd be sleeping - and perhaps you've experienced this already? - and open your eyes just a bit to find his whole face just two inches from yours.



You don't know how he got there or how long he's been standing there, but your opening your eyes is seen as a open invitation to start in on the talking, no matter that it's just 6 a.m. on a Sunday, your one day to sleep late.

"I know what kind of birthday I'm going to have," was the sort of thing he'd announce then, about a birthday that was still six months away. "Plaster Fun Time -"

"Shhhh! Go back to bed. It's early!"

"Cuz they give you a magnet. And I have two. And I need another, because..."

So yeah. Sorry I wasn't able to train him out of that.

I'm sorry, too, that he watches so much TV, and probably doesn't let you get a crack at it yourself.

Oh. Oops. I said crack. Is that OK? I meant the other kind. Well, not the kind in your bottom, either, but you know the THIRD kind.

Anyway, um yes, where was I, CW? The TV. It was the scene of many a battle in our house. We tried and tried, but clearly - as you may have noticed - we just sucked as parents and that little, willful shit child wore us down time and again. He was able to outsmart any contraption we'd impose. Back in our day it took three separate remote controls to operate a television, and he still figured out how to get his Nickolodeon and even operate what was then called a VCR, a little device that stumped many an adult after first blinding them with a blinking 12:00 sign.

Boy was also completely unable to grasp the fact that "No means no, young man," no matter how many times we tried.

Unless of course, he was the one using the no.

As in,

"Turn off the TV."

No.

"I said, turn off the TV right now."

No.

"Young man. You turn off that TV right now or else I..."

No.

So you'd have to get up, turn it off yourself, and there would be lots of tantruming and more threats about If you don't stop crying right this minute...

It was all terribly exhausting, frankly, considering it occurred several times a day, every day, and really, by the time he turned 1, we just said, The hell with it. Watch whatever you want.

Speaking of television, I'm guessing that in between your "trips" - is that what they're called? - you're a fan of baseball, because how else would you put up with that aspect of his personality?

Oh. Maybe the crack. Perhaps I should have tried that, for I used to pull out my own hair at how much of that damn sport went on at my house. For years, his every other sentence was "Wanna read my baseball cards?" I swear, it used to drive me absolutely bananas.

"Boy, what do you want for lunch?" I'd ask. "Wanna read my baseball cards?" he'd respond. Or, "Boy, it's time to go to school." "Wanna read my baseball cards?" Well, you get the picture. On and on it went like that. Which perhaps wouldn't have been so bad except that he didn't really interpret your "No, absolutely not" as "No absolutely not," and would just start right in, droning on and on with those boring-ass stats they insist on printing on those things. Ugh - it was terrible. Terrible, I tell you. There might be people out there who say I should be grateful the boy could read, but you know what? They have never sat through endless car rides and recitations of "Coco Crisp, Boston Red Sox; Julio Lugo, Boston Red Sox; Johnny Damen, New York Yankees..." I really mean it when I say a parent would rather have her child not read at all.

And then of course, there was this, the last and final straw:




Well, anyway, CW, we're off, now. Man and I have booked a celebration cruise, short trip away, and will be in touch but not for a good, long time. Good luck to you!

Yours,
RachelW



(With thanks to catsmum for help with the pix! Though I'm sure she would never condone my use of the word crack whore. She has nothing to do with that and is a very nice person who had no way of knowing I would use her powers for evil.)