Hey little asshole,

I have Good news!! Today I heard back on a job I’ve applied for to teach online class as an associate faculty member with an online university. This is while continuing to work at my current job in health care administration (which is the subject of the class I’ll be instructing). This is all part of a master plan that involves you. I’ve always said I would not have kids only to entrust someone else to raise them. I myself was a “daycare” kid who had chronic ear infections and clung to the leg of “Teacher Tina” like an emotionally starved orphan. This was only for a short period of my childhood but these memories are some of my most vivid. That and the girl who would pull her pants down when we ran laps around the gymnasium and the boy that always smelled like pee. I was also unhealthily attached to a “blanky” and I remember the staff not allowing me to select a stuffed animal during nap time because my blanky counted as my nap time comfort catalyst… and you cannot over comfort 4 year olds you know! Fuck heads. I also remember older boys messing with me before I realized I was smarter than them and staged a scenario to unfold at the moment my dad was getting there to pick me up… I honestly don’t know what ever happened to those boys because I literally never saw them again.

Anyway, I’ve gotten distracted with the horrors of daycare. The point is little asshole, I want to work from home (teach online full time eventually) so I can be there to raise you. I just graduated with my MBA, so this is a tremendous opportunity and also means I have to go back to school directly after the wedding for a teaching certification and then begin teaching under the tutelage of a seasoned instructor. I will wow them with my brilliance before applying for a fulltime position, this is a perfect stepping stone for me to get some online teaching experience. Everything I do is for you, the future, and to have a comfortable and meaningful life. It’s been a lot of work…. At certain points I think being a full time student, full time professional and full time bad ass has nearly pushed me to lick the walls and cry a little while I’m on the treadmill, but I know it’ll all be worth it. So know this… your mom is smart as fuck. I was a fuck up in high school. Smoking pot, skipping class and barely passing with D’s… so don’t try to tell me how you’re a “bad test taker” or your teacher is sabotaging you. Been there and regurgitated that bullshit all the way to community college. My parents might have bought it, but I won’t. I’m dyslexic; I can’t spell worth a damn. I’m surprised you can read this actually, but I worked hard and I figured it out. Fuck, I couldn’t read till I was 9! You might struggle too; luckily your dad is a brilliant speller and is constantly in the throes of reading and learning new things, hopefully you take after him. Together we’ll help you and set you up for success. Just be warned, the bar is set high little sucker : ) you are not going to be the kid that smells like pee in daycare… I promise.

In order to keep a child’s feet on the ground you must put a little weight on his shoulders (I read that on a sappy pinterest board and it burned into my brain)… I hope your dad and I can figure out the right amount of weight. I hope we can keep you grounded but still encourage you to grow. I hope you have confidence more than arrogance. I hope you know you’re exceptional. I wonder if you’ll know how hard we’ve worked for you or if you’ll care. I wonder if your dad will tell you 100 times that he sold his Harley to remodel the house before you were born. I wonder if you’ll be impressed by all my degrees hanging on the wall in my office. Either way, I suspect you could shit right in the palm of my hand and I’d still think you were adorable. I know we are going to love you. You might be the little bit of softness we need. You’ll be the little squishy mess in what has previously been the picture of order and accomplishment. You’ll be the chocolate handprints on the back of our leather couch… Can’t wait.

-I’m rich bitch.


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