Dear Boys: Things You May Not Realize
It has come to my attention that you must be confused about a couple of very important things. As your mother, it's my job to set you straight, so I'm writing you this letter.
First: naps. I suppose I've forgotten to tell you that naps are good. In fact, boys, they're great - and you are actually supposed to welcome them. When someone tells you to go to your bed in the middle of the day, snuggle into your fluffy pillow and cozy comforter, and even encourages you to sleep for as long as you can? That, my sons, is a luxury beyond compare. You must not realize this, seeing as you try eight hundred different ways to weasel out of naptime and then resort to whining and flopping around in your bed until you (grudgingly) fall asleep. Maybe when you learn that naps are like THE EPITOME OF AWESOME, you will welcome them instead of being all cranky and
Then, boys, there's the matter of personal grooming that we encountered yesterday. I was trimming your nails and hair; you were howling and thrashing like I was trying to saw off a limb. Without anesthetic. Let me tell you this: it's called a haircut, manicure, and pedicure, and people pay other people to do it for them. You? Are getting it for free. I? Have not had a haircut in over a year and would love to trade places with you. So the next time someone (Mommy) wants to make your grimy claws all neat and tidy, or trim up a few stray ends on those adorable little noggins of yours, you should be grateful and revel in the grooming ritual - not have an epic freakout as if I were coming at you with a hacksaw.
Finally, we come to dining. I need to explain one thing to you: you have a personal chef. You should be happy with this. Do you ever have to make your own meals, boys? ... You don't? ... That's because I cook for you. Three times a day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Again, this is a service that people actually pay for - a service you're completely taking for granted. What's more, I not only cook for you, I make sure your meals are nutritionally balanced (you know, most of the time). I cut the food up. I blow until I'm on the verge of hyperventilating to cool it. I do all this despite the fact that my own meals (that, coincidentally, I also prepare) are cold and unappetizing by the time I actually get to eat them. Therefore, perhaps you should consider gratefully eating said meals instead of complaining that I wanted ceeeeeeeereal and We had that last weeeeeeeeeek.
Maybe you just don't realize that you're supposed to appreciate these things. Boys, you're being handed amenities - on a silver platter - that I would give my left boob to have. A personal chef, an on-site manicurist and barber, a maid, a chauffeur, a laundry service, and somebody to not only encourage you to nap but rub your backs and read you stories beforehand?! I just described my own fantasy.
You're some lucky little dudes. Realize it. Embrace it.
... You're welcome.