Dear Kid,

I love my children.

I love them even when they borrow my shoes without asking and then hoard said shoes in their room. (At least I know where to look for footwear.)

I love them even when they ask me to find a pair of red sneakers somewhere in the laundryroom—and then it turns out the sneakers are mostly white with the barest hint of red trim and are at the bottom of a pile of papers in the back of the closet in their room.

I love them when they call at 4am to say they’ve locked the keys in the car and could I please do a rescue run—before 5am.

I love them even when they leave dishes and glasses scattered all over the house—despite having learned from an early age how to rinse plates and put them in the dishwasher.

I love them when they forget to tell me that important deadlines are fast approaching—as in NOW!

I love them even when I have to say “No.” Although that is becoming less frequent as they get older.

I love them when—even though they sufficient drawer space—they seem utterly incapable of putting away clean laundry.

I love them when I ask them to do a simple chore and the huffing and eye-rolling is Oscar-worthy because they are in the middle of watching reruns of Friends.

I love them when—despite having perfect hearing when it comes to being waited on hand and foot—they are utterly deaf to pleas to help bring in groceries from the car.

Yes, I would like them to figure out how to put away clothes and clear dishes and bring in groceries. But the good news is I watch them being kind, considerate, intelligent, and helpful with other people. And I figure if these are the biggest problems in my world, I’ve got a pretty good life.

But don’t tell my kids.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

When I was in 5th grade, my best friend Judy T. and I would stay up all night painting our nails. We stayed up all night because A) that’s what 5th grade girls do and B) our nails were a Production of Intricacy and Major Proportions.

Between gossip and snacks and life goals, we would first plan. This was important because we had nearly 9 billion shades of polish to choose from and One Had To Get It Right.

Between more gossip and snacks and life goals, we would paint. First the base coat. Then the first and second coats of color (probably not the same color on all nails and DEFINITELY not the same colors on hands and feet).

Then came the artistic portion of the evening. We added stripes and polka dots and dots within dots. Remember, this was back in the days before this was commercially available. It was a Process.

And we loved every minute of it.

I remember (might have been in 6th grade by then) a teacher (a man, but I don’t know why that should matter) looking at my nails and commenting that I wasn’t nearly old enough to have purple fingernails. Au contraire, my friend.

Painting my nails these days is usually a little different.

First there is the matter of removing existing polish which is no easy feat (read about it here if you’ve forgotten).

Choosing a color is no easier than it was in 5th grade. Not only have the cosmetics companies made every shade imaginable available in a polish, they’ve also created shimmers and glitters and gels and shines and mattes and magnetics and…the list goes on. These days I’ve been drawn toward either Brisbane Bronze or Tanacious Spirit (get it? Tan?). I think my next career should be as the person who thinks up the names for nail polishes and lipsticks.

The real challenge is that nail polish requires time to dry (I remember when Uncle David first explained to me that nail polish drying was nail polish liquid evaporating—mind blown) and time is something I am generally in short supply of.

I’ve taken to painting my nails in the car on the way to work. Red light—paint one hand. Red light—paint the other hand. Rinse and repeat with a second coat.
There are problems with this. The first is that—inevitably—when I want to paint my nails on the way to the office, every light magically turns green. The second is that this is much (MUCH) less enjoyable when the temperature is minus 400 and one would really rather shove one’s hands deep in furry mittens.

For the record, mittens (furry or not) and wet nail polish do not mix well.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

It’s OK to still be a kid. Age has nothing to do with it.

As a Sage recently (and helpfully) pointed out, there is a world of difference between being childish and being childlike.

Child-ish in someone no longer in single digits (age-wise) is generally not a good thing. It implies all the whiney, self-centered behaviors we generally associate with a tired and hungry three year old. (Not a pleasant being.)

Child-like on the other hand is wonderful in a person of any number of digits (age-wise). It implies having a carefree spirit, being able to enjoy the little things, putting aside the “I’m too old for that” attitude.

As a sage-ette pointed out, time and place have a lot to do with the appropriateness of behavior too. Running up and down the aisle at a funeral with child-like abandon is not appropriate. At the same time, dressing somberly and looking like you are contemplating a significant business deal at a kid’s birthday party is equally out of place.

College is a time to balance being an adult but not losing all ability to be child-like.

As I may have mentioned once or twice, we miss out on a lot of fun stuff when we decide we’re too old, too mature, too whatever to enjoy life.

While we didn’t get to go to EPCOT the other day, I hope you have plenty of opportunity in 2014 to practice child-like joy.

Love, Mom