Oh, my little Matthew (or not so little any more I suppose), my first born, my little man.  The Shoo.

You are so smart and have such an amazing memory and thought processes; you love to read and you love your alone time almost as much as you love playing with your younger brother.  You get frustrated when you can’t do something (you are SO much like me). You talk constantly and have no filters – you say what you think and feel and couldn’t keep a secret to save your life (your GramBo and I are so envious of your ability to say anything – you’ll understand as you get older).

You are still in love with your Elly, though I see you leaving her behind more and more often and it’s just one more thing to prove that you’re growing up too fast.

You go in spurts, where you are perfectly helpful and polite and happy and then switch to to frustrated and angry and what I would call a brat.  You fight against having a schedule but you need one more than anything.  Left alone, you can’t make decisions or second guess your decisions constantly. Sometimes I forget that you’re still little and that you need us to guide you all the time, not just sometimes. And you know how to push my buttons more than any other person I’ve ever known.

You are compassionate, sweet, loving, intelligent, funny, protective and amazing.  You’re not my sweet, chubby baby anymore; you’re all legs and elbows, but every once in a while you give me a hug that takes my breath away.

I love you to the moon and back. Happy Birthday, sweet boy.

I don’t normally write letters to my kids here…but for some reason tonight, I kind of feel for it, so here it is.

My dear, sweet Matthew,

It’s hard to believe that tomorrow you are going to be 6 years old.  I so vividly remember being pregnant with you, feeling you move and falling in love with you before I ever saw your face.  You are an amazing little boy – absurdly smart, silly, sensitive and loving.  You’ve grown so much in the last year – the change from 5 to 6 has been filled with amazing discoveries, including you discovering your independence more than ever (your dad and I are totally loving you being able to turn on the tv, the playstation and being able to make your own breakfast!!).  You constantly surprise me by repeating words and facts that you seem to absorb like a sponge. Your ability to read is fantastic (I always hoped for my kids to love to read like I do); your ability to love and be tender with your brother is even better.  Of course, you’re not perfect…you still get whiny when you’re exhausted, you still have issues with the bathroom, and you mimic me way too much, but you are adorable and easy to forgive when you make mistakes. You are handsome, athletic and such a wonderful little boy.  I am lucky to be your mama.  Happy birthday, baby.

Love, Mommy

*PEEP*

new bike

I can’t seem to turn if off lately. I’m having trouble sleeping, and then when I do fall asleep, I sleep like the dead and can’t wake up. Let’s dive right in, shall we?

First, my business. I don’t really get it, but we’re super busy and have no cash. There is a serious cash-flow problem in my office and I don’t quite know what to attribute it to. According to Wall Street, we’re in a recession, but I’m in Michigan, so we’re way ahead of the curve on that one. That said, we’re busy. So busy, in fact, that we need more help, but I can’t afford to add anyone to the payroll. I can say all day that it’s old debt from when we lost an insurance company for a year and bought out of our franchise (and it is), and I can complain about the absurdly, ridiculously, atrocious cost of employee health care (yikes!), and I can whine about the cost of goods going up and the reimbursement from insurance companies going down (and down and down…). But alas, that doesn’t pay my bills. And bills I have. Up the wazoo. And I don’t know how to get them all paid. I found a little leeway in the checkbook last week and caught up on those really important things (taxes, rent) and then I got another huge bill due on the 15th. Yes, it came in the mail on the 11th. Sure, I can pay that by then – my employees don’t need the money! </sarcasm> The big bills always come due during payroll week. Always.

It’s funny, when I got into this owning my own business thing, I was more worried about staff issues (because they are never-ending) and patient problems. Things were so damn smooth for the first 6 years, even with the aforementioned problems, that it never occurred to me that it would get worse. Dude, I was a marketing major with a passion for about 20 other things before my dad offered me the opportunity. Numbers and money have never been my strength, but I’ve learned and obviously, still have more to learn. So this money thing hangs like a cartoon anvil above my head and I have to get over it. I’ve got to be proactive. Although I’m not sure where else to go or what else to do. Apparently, even though my business is a corporation, my personal credit is more important than the business credit. And since Mike and I have incurred an absurd amount of debt over the years…well, even though we’re working hard at paying off our debt, that doesn’t impress anyone when it comes to my business. <SIGH> Just the mere thought of money and bills and all of that literally makes my stomach hurt. I keep reminding myself that it will all be ok, that everything will work out, but I’m very close to not being able to believe myself anymore. It’s like little panic attacks randomly throughout my day.

Sometimes I wish I could just be a stay at home mom with a part-time job. Owning the place means it’s never really out of my thoughts. I mean, really, I stop in all the time, I just wrote out a deposit at 9pm, and last night was working on insurance claims. It’s impossible to let go when your livelihood depends on the place. <SIGH> And the mama guilt that comes with needing to think about it? Killer. Hell, I even find my mind wandering to it when I’m reading Goodnight Moon! And that’s not fair. Tuesday I get to spend my day there and get as much accomplished as possible so that I can think about it just a little less.
——————-

What else? I’m going to take a cue from a fellow blogger and write some letters. I know they won’t be as good or funny as hers, but why not?

Dear Son,

Seriously? The pooping issues? Getting old. REALLY OLD. Just sit on the toilet, for crying out loud. It WILL come out, I promise. You have to be patient. I know it hurts. I know. But the longer you hold it in, the worse it gets. It’s a vicious cycle. I’m not really sure what else to do – your diet is fine. How anyone who drinks as much watered juice as you do could be constipated, I don’t know, but I feel your pain. Next up? Prune juice, which I know you won’t drink; suppositories which you will never allow (thanks), or other stool softeners. Really, this is all fun, but I truly think that if you just sat that skinny little butt of yours down on the toilet, you’d be fine.

Love, Mom

—–

Dear Scrapbook Supplies,

I know. I feel you looking at me when I stop in to check the fax machine or drop my junk mail next to you. I feel your pain. Your beautiful papers, your fun embellishments, all those adhesives…and the new Cricut cartridge that I have yet to play with? Soon….I will match your fabulousness with all of those pictures I have stacked up and create magic. Until then, I miss you too.

—-

Dear Sewing Machine,

Quit calling my name! Come on! I know we’re still in the discovery phase of our relationship, and that you’re still very lovey-dovey, but please! Keep it down, the scrapbook supplies are right across the room and they are very jealous. Besides, you are very time consuming and at times, overwhelming. I need a little space (even though I don’t want it!)

—-

Dear Hubby,

Um…you not only fell asleep before 9, but you fell asleep on MY side of the bed and you’re snoring. And when I said, “well, I’m off to clean and do the dishes” what I meant was “Now that the boys are in bed, get your ass downstairs and help me clean up so we can both relax.” Sorry I wasn’t more clear. And while we’re on the subject, I know you always say you’ll do chores if I tell ask you to, but we’ve been married for almost 13 years and I’m pretty certain that you noticed once or twice while I was away that the house is not self-cleaning and that we do not employ little cleaning elves that come in the middle of the night. Why is it that I have to ask for help? And why is it that when you see me cleaning angrily while you are playing video games that you still have to ask me what’s wrong? Help me keep the house clean, dammit! I want to play, too!

Love, Me

—–

Dear House,

Why *aren’t* you self-cleaning? Sometimes I feel almost panicked at the thought of cleaning you one more time. Any help you could give would be appreciated.

Love, Me

—-

Dear Body,

You do realize that you’re not attractive anymore, right? And that muffin tops belong on muffins?

Love, Soul

—-

Dear Subconscious,

Seriously? I mean, seriously? How many years are you going to throw the nightmares of my husband leaving me / loving someone else / not looking back / at me? And why is my ex-best friend that I haven’t had a conscious thought of in years ALWAYS the evil woman stealing my man away? Because I never forgave her for real for being a first class beyotch right before my wedding? Well, get over it. Apparently, I can’t so I need you to. The dreams piss me off and I’m sick of their realism. So stop.

Thanks, Sleepy Me

—-

Dear Dorkdog,

I love you. You have always been a fabulously wonderful dog and I am hurting inside watching you waste away. I wish I knew if you were really suffering or if the weight loss is the only thing. I have no idea if you’re in pain or not. I don’t want you to be in pain; I don’t want you to suffer. You’ve been such a faithful companion, so loving and sweet and I can’t stand the thought of not having you around, but more so, I can’t stand you hurting or being so sad. Every once in a while you show your old self, playing and being silly, but more often than not, you’re sleeping these days. I can’t read those big brown eyes of yours and I’m afraid the day is coming soon when I will have to say goodbye. And I’m sorry if I failed you in any way. You’ll always be my first baby; my fooby.

Love, Mommy

—-

Just to even it out a bit, Preston and I were laughing so hard tonight while he was supposed to be going to sleep that I felt like a kid at a sleep-over. I kept telling him “shhh…we’re gonna get in trouble!” Honestly, once he gets giggling, I can’t help but join in.