I am writing to you today, to let you know that I am having a difficult time keeping up with you. Try as I might, I am always several steps behind your perfectly proportioned tush. You are the epitome of calm, cool, collected. You rarely have a hair out of place, the sun’s rays shine on your $200 highlights in all the right places, and your glowing skin is almost as bright as your smile.
Your clothes cling to your curves; natural, womanly curves that are free from bulges and handles, curves which lack any evidence of your two previous pregnancies, and because of this, I must admit, I often have unpleasant thoughts about you. These thoughts more or less appear when I am trying to stuff my way into double digit jeans, by far tighter than my bra, which could easily host another set of twins or two in each half-empty cup.
I wonder if you could maybe step it down a notch. I feel it’s only fair, since no matter how hard I try, I cannot, and most likely will not, ever get close to resembling you and your perfection. For the love of God, could you look disheveled once in a while? It doesn’t take much. For some, myself included, it is a constant state of being. We are mothers after all. How do you keep the oatmeal out of your hair? The bbq sauce off of your blouse? The double fudge chocolate cake out of your mouth?
You are everywhere. At the mall. At church. The school parking lot. You gather at the park with your beautiful circle of friends (after all, your kind typically travels in herds). Your car is always clean and your children’s clothes neatly pressed. You take family portraits every six months and they hang perfectly in your tidy house, which rests on a lush lawn, maintained by your muscular and doting husband.
You are smart, articulate, and have regular adult conversations that do not include topics such as potty accidents, time outs, mac n cheese recipes, and the ever important consistency of your offspring’s stools. You couldn’t find a Walmart t-shirt in your closet if your life depended on it and this is why, Mrs. Jones, I sometimes want to slip some laxatives in that venti nonfat caramel machiatto that you wrap your lips around each morning. I feel bad, because I know us mommies need to stick together, but you make it really hard to have warm feelings toward you when you sashay while I waddle.
I hope you understand where I’m coming from. If you would just ease up on some of that milf-ness of yours, I may consider coming up to you one day and offering you my mac n cheese recipe.
Lord knows your thighs could use it.