~Dear Young Handsome Cousin~

When I switched to clubmom, I gave away all of the stuff that was the outtabodymommy. I gave a link to this site, but I didn't do it through proper channels and the link is already buried behind a week of posts.

That kind of thrills me, because that means that this site belongs to me, and I can write whatever I want to write; like I did before my mother and all of my relatives caught my link. (If you are my mother or my relative--ha ha! I jest. I was always honest!) I am about to write an open letter to my handsome young cousin, and I am doing it here because--what the hell. I can do whatever I want. I OWN this site.

Dear HYC,

When you were born, you were sent to an incubator because you were premature. I remember your mother bringing bags of milk to Grandma's fridge so that she could take them to the NICU. I remember the picture your dad brought home. Your hand was holding his thumb, and your tiny fingers couldn't wrap all the way around. Your eyelids were veiny like a baby bird, and there was a cap on your head.

I don't know exactly how old you were when I began to babysat you, bit I do recall lifting you out of your bassinet. I can see your tiny face red from screaming, and I vividly recall slipping a bottle between your wailing lips, and the way your right eye would wink while you sucked. I remember you as a tiny boy who wouldn't drink milk, but you would drink "moo-juice", water wasn't on your list of beverages, but 'sky water' could be slipped to you. I remember you as five with your bowl hair cut, and the way your bottom lip would quiver when your mother left. You never wanted me to hold you when you were sad, you preferred to pout in your room. I remember the day I took you for the ride in my TransAm--and I remember that you believed me when I pointed at the tachometer and declared, "We are going 120 miles an hour!"

Time passed, and while I wasn't looking, you grew into a man. And you got married. And you had a child, a baby girl that I held in my arms. When I slipped the bottle past her wailing lips, I was reminded of you. Did you know that your baby girl is the replica of you as a baby, except she has blonde hair and girl bits?

In the past few years I have begun to appreciate you as an adult. You helped us move--you grabbed an end of the freezer that was full of rotting mystery meat and you saved me the misery. There was the day that Martin was gone and I called you and asked you to fix my window--and you came right over and did that for me. When I was lonely, you came to my house and allowed me to feed you shake and bake chicken. You babysat my children so that I could go to school--and there was the winter that I was pregnant and you brought me wood for my fireplace. You babysat Kate so I could go bowling.

What I am trying to say here is that--dude. I love you. I have loved you since you were a tiny baby. I loved you before I put my eyes on your face. You were your daddy's son; your daddy has always been my rock. I changed your diapers, and I didn't mind. Because I loved you then. I love you now.

However.

Tonight we were talking about a bachelor party and you declared that guys didn't care what the stripper looked like--as long as she wasn't old.

I said, "Like seventy?"
You said, "Ha ha! YEAH, like anything over thirty is to old for a stripper."

Blink. Blink.

Listen you little miscreant. I changed your diapers. You are hereby obligated to declare that old is AT LEAST ten years past my age; you might have to find out how old I am so that you can do the math. It's called 'respect for your elders' and I am part of the group of elders who doesn't think that being stripper is out of our league. You suggesting that women my age are past prime is rude. I didn't raise you like that.

Sincerely,
Deb