Dear Future Daughter-In-Law,

As I write this, you’re probably riding your bike, bopping along in your hot pink Justice leggings and bedazzled tank.**  Of course, there is always the chance that my son could pull an Ashton, and land himself a Demi.  In which case, please put down that cigarette (because smoking when you’re 18 equals Juvaderm when you’re 30) and start working on your college applications.

First off, if you have any priors on your record (including, but not limited to: stays in juvie, lower back tattoos, questionable choices in makeup/friends à la Gretchen Weiners/booty shorts), you best come clean with them up front.  I’m so nosy that I make Mr. Roeper and Marie Barone look like amateurs, so I will find out anyway.

Example?  I once believed a friend was having an affair, simply because I drove past her house and spotted an unfamiliar white pick-up truck.  Whereas a sane, normal individual would simply ask this friend who was visiting her at 10 p.m. on a Saturday (scandalous!), I decided to drive through the parking lot of her office to look for the offensive vehicle.  Imagine my surprise when I saw my friend get into the passenger seat of the white truck (heathens!) and drive off into the sunset.  Okay, so the sunset ended up being a Mexican restaurant, but still – imagine the look on my (sunglasses-covered, headscarf-wearing) face when I saw another WOMAN get out of the driver’s side!  Ohmygodmyfriendisalesbian!

Yes, that’s right.  I went straight to torrid love affair rather than believe my friend would have lunch with someone other than yours truly.  So.  Might as well hand over any old photos of you at a sorority rally before I brand you a Communist.

I know this may be shocking, but I’m kind of a lot to handle.  I’m like The Godfather Jane Fonda in StepMonster Kate Upton in anything, anywhere.  (What?  Maybe by the time you read this, I will have had enough surgeries to make my body as phantasmagoric as hers.  Because my current situation of “lay on the couch, chasing a bag of Doritos with a glass of Chardonnay and praying I wake up a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model,” really isn’t working out for me.)

And speaking of supermodels with rockin bods, there’s a slight chance you and I started out on the wrong foot simply because you have better thighs than I do.  I mean, I didn’t even have 24 year-old thighs when I had 24 year-old thighs.  (Sidenote: this may explain why, every time I have a glass*** of wine and catch a Beyoncé concert on Palladia, I end up with a massive case of thigh-envy and throw my back out trying to do a set of squats followed by the Single Ladies dance.  Trust me, ain’t NObody ready for that jelly.)

Here’s the deal: my son is amazing.  And I’m not just saying that because he can already name all 205 countries in the world, and is currently studying the conflict in North Korea.  He’s also sweet, considerate, and sensitive.  (No, I don’t know where he got these qualities.  It’s one of those things I don’t question, like how Mark Wahlberg gets hotter every year, or how J.Lo is still famous.)

So please take care of him.  Don’t get all feminist-y; I’ve put a lot of time into teaching him how to treat a woman.  Let him open the door.  Squeal with delight when he buys you flowers for no reason.  I need you to be the Amy Farrah Fowler to his Sheldon Cooper, only less harp & way cooler hair.  Basically?  I need you to be ME.



**And just because I may or may not be wearing the exact same outfit right now doesn’t mean you should bike your ass back to Justice for those broken-heart Best Friend necklaces.

***Or 3.

© Calling All Cool Moms 2013