The Lola Letters: Dear Mom,

Thank you so much for the hand-me-down Vera Wang jammies. Now, as you already know, fancy jammies are NOT in my budget, but free ones from the most fantastical glammy-jammy-mami on the planet?

I'll take em.

They make lounging around reading "The Picture of Dorian Gray," and vacuuming a dog hair-y carpet, and loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, and wiping boogs from a teething one-year-old's upper lip INFINITELY more glamorous. So thanks.

Xo,
{Your daughter.}
{P.s. And thanks for Tennyson's awesome jammies too. You are the queen of lounge wear...and my favorite supplier.}

Dear Self,

It's prolly time for a ghetto-home-made-glitter-toes-redo. You know, since these ones are left over from July. Just a suggestion. {I think Bubbuh agrees}

Xo,
{You.}

Dear Tennyson's Mullet,

You are 98% "Awesome."
And 2% "Meh..."

Unfortunately, sometimes such percentages are disregarded, and haircuts are scheduled in spite of the inherent awesomeness of the hair in question. {This is particularly unavoidable when the infant in question starts looking like the offspring of Donald J. Trump, rather than his gorgeous and beloved ACTUAL father. This resemblance is disturbing as well as uncanny, and prolly needs to be stopped at all costs.}

So, while I haven't decided one way or the other for sure, I just wanted to give you fair warning.
Prepare for the worst.

Xo,
{The mother of the child from whom you sprout.}

Dear Tennyson,

I'm so sorry that you got my hair. I was worried one of my little nuggets would get stuck with it. So, later in life, when you get an extra Twinkie in your lunch box, or I let you go play on Saturday without finishing your chores to satisfaction, or I let you go do something fun that Kort complains I never let him go do when he was your age... just point at your fuzzy little duck head, and tell him tough beans. Kay?

Cause I've got to make it up to you somehow.

Did you know that complete strangers walk up to you in the most random of places and rub your head? It's like a moth to a flame, or vanilla creme wafers to,um, my mouth. People just can't resist those fluffy, stand-on-end piles of delicious duck down. And frankly, neither can I.