Dearest C,

You forgot to mention my two favorite ways of spending the Holiday Season: shopping and abroad.  The first provides you with an invaluable excuse for absenting you from hearth, home and esp. hubby at this relentlessly cheerful time of year – and who is to know that the all the ‘gifts’ you are out busy buying are all for yourself, and not the cherubs, who frankly have too many toys anyway?  The second is even better, provided you actually do pony up presents (Thank God for Harrods Duty Free!), by way of a peace offering upon your return…..Speaking of which, do let me know if there is anything I can bring you back from Blighty; the cab comes at seven.

One other therapeutic approach, before I go, is to force hubby to don his sexiest Santa hat and nothing else, next time he proposes coming down your chimney.  Think of it as the perfect way to break in the new video camera you bought yourself – I mean, hubby – the other day, and act on your deep-seated desire to F**k Christmas at one and the same time.

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest C,

With hubby winging his way to LA, safely ensconsed in his first class seat, trusty scotch (but I trust, no mistress) at his side, I thought you might be encouraged to learn that the oldballandchain believes you will take his absence as an opportunity to ramp up the raging affair he is convinced you are having. 

Putting aside the fact that the obc seems to find nothing strange about the idea of you carrying on this affair at six a.m. in the morning, Tuesdays and Thursdays only; you will no doubt be gratified to learn that two pre-teens, a kindergartner, a toddler and a dog are no obstacle in his book, apparently, to the continuation of a torrid romance. 

How to explain that to most of the women I know, the prospect of having to service the needs of yet one more human being in their life is something they look forward to about as much as their annual pap smear?  (And if you don’t believe me, just ask yourself this: Which would you rather enjoy for the rest of your life: unlimited sex, or unlimited time at the spa?  I rest my case.)

Is this simply the final proof I needed that men and women are just wired differently?  Or simply proof that the obc is dying to sleep with you?

Rest assured, dear C, the latter is quite alright with me.  As you quite rightly point out, at my age, a ‘girl’ needs all the beauty sleep she can get.

Faithfully,

P.

P,

Can’t say what troubles me more: your lack of concern for my potential involvement with the obc or my own potential involvement with the obc.  Frankly, most of the time you can be counted on to protect your territory like a rabid raccoon, although, except for the frothing at the mouth, there are few physical similarities.  So, dearest P, why are you so little troubled by my capturing obc’s eye and other body parts?  Although it must have something to do with how very little I appear to be any real threat, I simply choose to think both our spouses find themselves in the enviable position of having, really, two wives.  Can’t be too threatening when I would, inevitably, nag him through the whole damn event.

Oh, and as far as any real affair goes, is it possible to simply sit upon a throne and be worshipped, without any human contact at all?  You are British so I feel you are in the best position to know.  If there are any vacancies in the royal clan, do call.  Otherwise, reassure the obc that my flannel nightie at 8pm in conjunction with a good book is, at the moment, about the only illicit relationship I can handle. 

Faithfully,

C.

Dear C,

Time was when I used to scoff at that most quintessential of DC stereotypes, the pushy parent, who will stop at nothing  to give their spawn every possible advantage in life.  Personal music tutor for your fetus?  Absolutely, although if you’ve left it longer than the second trimester, it’s probably already too late.  Delay kindergarten until your child reaches puberty?  Why not, if it means he comes across as a genius compared to all those five-year old dolts still struggling to tie their shoes.

Alas, thanks to our recent trials and tribulations with our own (hitherto unrecognized) geniuses, I fear I have become the very thing I despise the most.  Yes, I am the mother who corners the Prinicpal as she is heading out of the staff bathroom, demanding to know by what unforgivable oversight my child was left out of the Advanced Math class – this, in a school where every child is considered ‘advanced’ unless of course they are merely ‘gifted, but with special needs.’ 

I am the parent who calls in the counselor to complain about low self-esteem, only to threaten to have said counselor fired when she dares to bring up Mommy’s little swearing habit (I only called my daughter a moron once, I swear!).  And yes, I am the parent who spends hours getting ready for the parent-teacher conference (Lily or Juicy?  So important to set the right tone, don’t you think?), but is philosophically opposed to checking her child’s homework on the grounds that it violates their sense of autonomy (hey, I have an argument for  everything).

Last, but not least, I am the kind of parent who bores her friends, acquaintances, sales clerks and above all husband with a long-winded analysis of what everyone else thinks is the matter with my children, and why I think they’re all wrong.

I tell you all this, dear C, by way of apologizing for my one-track mindedness, of late.  Clearly, my trip to London on Friday cannot come a day too soon for you, the oldballandchain and not least the mailman, whom I spotted jumping behind the nearest bush today, upon my approach.

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

I fear I suffer from a related but much more self-centered malady.  Its most apparent characteristics include the certainty that one’s children are as brilliant as oneself, even with the unfortunate diluting of the gene pool by one’s spouse.  Frankly, it’s easy to live with the condition until the real world intrudes upon this nirvana and insists one’s children may be quite average.

A key distinction between your malady and mine now rears its ugly head, however, as although I welcome the opportunity to hire any tutor necessary to overcome mediocrity, I cannot be bothered to actually engage in the process of improvement.  It just seems to me, P, that if a kid can’t wrap their little arms around their own issues by the age of two (I do give them a comfortable window after early potty training), I must remind them I’m not always going to be here to do it for them.

I see your plight as one easily remedied by the mantra, "What about my needs?"  I know your instincts for this philosophy are good as evidenced by the painstaking care you take in your own wardrobe even at the expense of others who share your abode.  Frankly, with four of my own cherubs clamoring in all their glory with "special needs," it’s refreshing to sit back and thank my lucky stars that I am able to give them the gifts of their own lives to run and ruin.  The beauty of this approach, of course, is if my lovelies succeed, my terrific parenting philosophy worked and I’m given full credit and if, in fact, they derail their own success, I cannot be blamed. 

So stop staking out the school bathrooms, dearest P, and know that redemption is close at hand.  Your approaching holiday will give you all the time and distance you need to know that, once again, your dearest neighbor has saved you from another sleepless night.  After all, you are at that tricky age when insomnia might lead to clear evidence that none of us ultimately wins against the relentless march of time. 

Faithfully,

C.