Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Dear Finicky Baby...

Mommy apologises sincerely that it's not an option to just pull off the side of the road into that pub. I know we pass it coming home from work, but it's not as simple as that. Believe me, little piggly wiggly, Mommy realises with astounding clarity just how much you want that huge hamburger on a white floured bun with mayonnaise and mustard and ketchup with a tiny serving of peas and a huge serving of perfectly golden-brown, crispy-fried, sublimely salted chips. The thick kind of chips that you get in a pub. Trust me, baby: I want it, too. And I'd love to just pull over and buy it and eat it for you, but alas, there's a budget to remember, and we have to get home so I can cook dinner for Daddy and Uncle Angus. And besides, you really have to choose which is more important: tasty tasty food, or ordering Mommy to sleep so you can steal all her energy to make yourself grow faster. Once we've settled on priorities, we might try having this discussion again.

your mommy.

PS - I'm getting distinctly worried there are two of you in there. If there are, please manifest by two rapid tugs on your umbilical cord...if you have one of those yet. Alternately, you can swish around like synchronised swimmers until I notice.

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