Memos

Memo to Jason:  When I'm running out of the house the minute dinner is over to take Annie to catechism and then meet my writing partner and I ask you to please finish cleaning up the kitchen and start the dishwasher (which I have already mostly loaded), leaving the really yucky dishes (the bowl in which Jemma and I made powerballs today, the cookie sheet on which I made the mango and goat cheese quesadillas) "to soak" in the sink and then never doing another thing with them does not exactly count.

Memo to Annie:  When I go outside in the morning to start the car and brush off the snow and I ask you to get your snow gear on, I expect that you will have made at least some progress when I come back in the house seven minutes later.

Memo to Jemma:  After four years of having little-to-no separation anxiety, now is not the time to decide that you will cling to my legs and cry when I try to leave you at preschool (which you love beyond measure) or with the babysitter who has put you to bed at least fifteen times.  The time for that was when you were around 18-24 months, and it has passed.

Memo to Annie:  When you and Jemma get in an argument about something and you run to tell me about it and I say that I don't want to hear about it, I actually, truly don't want to hear about it.  Not even your side of it.  Especially not your side of it.

Memo to Jemma:  I love you, but you spill something on yourself every. single. time. you eat.  Why?

Memo to the parents dropping off their children at elementary school in the morning:  The lane?  In front of the school?  Is for pulling over, letting your kid jump out of the car, yelling, "I love you!  Have a great day!" and then pulling away.  It is NOT for you to park your car and get out and walk to stand in line with your child for five minutes until the doors open, leaving the rest of us with no place to pull over.