Hahahahahaha, you delightfully quirky folks! What is there to say other than ‘thank you’ for enrolling me in your Smart Moms program and gifting me with my very own membership card? Does it come with a coupon for at least one child-free pee for me per week? Yeah, I thought not.
Someone in that program has an epically awesome sense of humor, especially at a time like this. I love people with a sense of humor. Beats trying to make jovial with folks who believe tree branches are for carting about in their nether regions.
But seriously, last week’s mailbox offering of aforementioned card and breathless recitation of everything I have to look forward to was plenty for moi. You see, I’ve been there, done that twice. Well, I’ve done it more than that, but you know, two kids. Anyway, the youngest is twelve and I’ve no intention of birthing any more mini-mes. I have the stretch marks, sagging rack and bladder that cannot/will not make it on a round of errands without visiting at least one public toilet. I’m good. Really.
Cue today’s mailbox offering. Someone, somewhere is laughing. Hard. I hope they pee themselves or at least blow soda out their nostrils, because really?!
Yes, it’s a hysterectomy! Score! I win!
So you see, I do not need your infant formula. I don’t want to know about fussy eaters, gas (newsflash: I need help with the husband and the dog on this one), or colic. I don’t want tips on finding me time, getting plenty of rest, or a cure for cracked nipples. Seriously, I’m good.
In lieu of formula, please send any and all manner of liquor and chocolates from which I may partake while I’m laid up. Thank you in advance for this splendiforous act of corporate generosity.