Dear Breeder Friends,
Remember those to-die-for handmade organic booties I brought to your baby shower that cost more than my own shoes? I do.
And do you recall how I suffered with a smile through the hours of The Diaper Game (for the uninitiated, this is where interesting varieties of baby food, from apples and pears to chicken and beef, and deposited into the ground-zero area of a baby diaper and passed around so that guests can stick their noses into it and take a stab at that substance they’re smelling)? I know I’ll never forget.
You will, of course, bring to mind all the cute, clever, and fabulous gifts that I, the ‘cool auntie,’ have produced for your children’s Big Days – birthdays, baptisms, Bar Mitzvahs, Christmases, kindergarten graduations – year after year. After year.
And you know you’ve gotten off light – you’ve never had to pony up for a Petunia Picklebottom diaper bag or Peg Perego stroller for my baby shower because, well, I chose not to have kids and somehow new rescue dogs just don’t engender the same womanly insanity and retail orgy that a howling, furless, helpless infants do. But that’s OK. I love you, and I love your children, and I love finding just the right gift, so it’s all good.
But there’s something you should know – the jig is up.
Sure, I gave your kid all that amazing stuff out of goodness of my heart, but not without an agenda, and here it is.
The day your child turns 13, and I mean before the confetti from the Bat Mitzvah is vacuumed up, said child will be farmed out to me, by you, to solve all of my software and technology problems.
Remember the hand-made lace Christening booties from Ireland? That warrants a software upgrade and file backup.
The awesome Red Flyer wagon? Now we’re talking iPhone setup and optimization.
And you’ll recall, I’m sure, how your little sprite begged and pleaded for an iPad and I came up with one? That’s worth a home theater setup, no doubt.
Right this very moment you probably have a surly teenager taking up space in your house and polluting the atmosphere of your home with her stomping, moping, and bleatings of boredom. It’s time to put that child to good use, and remember, those Baby Einstein gyms didn’t come cheap, sister, so pack up that bundle of emotional fraughtness and drop her off at my house.
I’ll have her back by dinner. It takes a village.
Love, Auntie Fahrenheit