C,

Speaking of Carpe Diem, what is your family policy on the wearing, or not, of underwear in bed?  My sisters and I were raised to roam free beneath our nightgowns, but latterly I have developed something of a phobia about the prospect of being caught sans culottes by potential burglars or my children, who are getting to the age where seeing their own mother or father naked leaves a lasting impression, akin to the blindness caused by staring directly at the sun. 

I ask only because my invariably right and never interfering mother-in-law has taken it upon herself to inform my children that it is positively unhealthy to wear undies in bed – something to do with letting it breathe, although I have no idea why ‘it’ only requires oxygen, like trees, at night.  Nevertheless, my impressionable young daughters promptly threw caution to the wind, right there and then, and it’s been a frenzy of knicker-burning ever since. 

I wouldn’t mind, except that my dear MIL neglected to supply them with the appropriate Victorian-length nightgowns that should accompany all such political statements, or teach them the accompanying behavior, which requires that one forgo practicing half-lotus position or being photographed by the paparazzi on each and every occasion one chooses to go commando.

Do you know of any etiquette schools in DC that might teach them this, without at the same time trampling on the delicate flower of their self-esteem, which at present dictates they let it all hang out? 

Faithfully,

P.

P.S. Saw Au pair at the bus-stop this am, engaged in earnest discussion with M. Should you be concerned?

P,

Thank God I’ve got you to distract me with these urgent matters or I might notice that AP has asked that we have a special mediation session at her agency to determine whether we might "work on" some unresolved issues.  I don’t suppose sending her on that three day spa weekend will do any good at this point.  Frankly, all I can hope for now is that she too overpopulates the world one day and is saddled with a helpless twit of a teenager as her only lifeline to the outside world. 

‘Fraid I might not be much help on the bare bush front as our only controlling family precedent is a firm rule requiring a good Clorox spray down of any eating areas on which naked parts have sat.  I fear I subscribe to your MIL’s philosophy, only on a 24/7 basis.  Air is an important commodity when so much of  life is spent accomodating the entrance of potentially hostile invaders, right?   You may be pleased to know the result of our house rule is a rather prudish second cherub who nearly refuses to remove her bloomers for even the necessary potty time. 

I hesitate to mention that she has noticed the abundance of girl parts on view at your house.  She does seem a bit offended by the new open door policy, so to speak, and may take it upon herself to lecture you on, as she calls it, your newfound immorality.  Don’t worry, the lecture isn’t long, although rather tiresome, so may I suggest you use the time to reconsider your home’s to-do list?  It’s a trick I’ve mastered during intimate moments with hubby and it really works wonders on my enthusiasm and engagement in the process, especially the time it occurred to me just how lovely our bedroom ceiling would look painted in a very pale shade of yellow.

Faithfully,

C. 

Dearest C,

No doubt you’ll be glad to hear that in your latest prolonged and some would say neglectful absence from hearth and home, I have taken it upon myself to feed and shelter your cherubs – remember them?  Nothing to do with my martyr complex, you understand; nor my wannabe Jewish mother compulsion, aka Munching by proxy syndrome, which causes my heart to swell with pride as I watch the people I feed around me swell in size.  No, dearest C,  my desire to feed your nearest and dearest comes from stems from the observation that your two-year old is looking all skin and bones these days – rather like you, as a matter of fact.  But whereas the sight of your hiking up a pair of $400 jeans over jutting hips is a mark of triumph, representing many years of self-sacrifice and denial, my goddaughter, I’m afraid to say, is in danger of crossing the line from fashionable to waifish.

Now I know you favor a more Spartan approach when it comes to mothering, believing that strife and adversity are character-building for the ‘real world’, whatever that is, but do you really want your youngest to be seen foraging around the neighborhood trash bins after dark?  If nothing else, it  looks so bad on private school applications.

Rest assured, dear C, I will have the situation reversed faster than youngest can upend a bowl of organic tofu.  By the time you get back from your Caribbean getaway with hubby, where no doubt you spent the time lodged in some hovel with the natives, as part of your commitment to keepin’ it real, I wager your youngest will have doubled her body weight, thanks to my patented formula of feeding children a properly balanced diet consisting of the five main food groups – pizza, chicken nuggets, french fries, cookies and ice-cream.  All this, without either of us gaining an ounce.

Faithfully,

P.

Dearest P,

You must know how wonderfully supported I feel upon my return to the ‘hood.  I confess that your recent correspondence, besides savagely critiquing my mothering and fashion skills, seems less than friendly.  I’d like to think it is mere jealousy about my almost infinite travel and socializing opportunities but, I fear, it is really much darker than that.  Could it be, dearest P, that something is amiss in your abode? 

As much as I’d like to believe you live to feed and care for my cherubs, as well as your own, and spend endless hours evaluating my wardrobe, I think you may have discovered a gap in your own existence.  It’s as if you’ve realized that tennis, tea and cocktails isn’t enough to fill a life, even when time is taken out for harshly judging mothers without the luxury of a home office who are struggling to maintain some semblance of balance in their weary worlds. 

Perhaps you see the way Nemesis engages with the obc on a nearly daily basis in an intelligent and informed manner and sense you jumped from this engaging train long ago, only to realize it isn’t so satisfying to watch it whiz past you endlessly, even though you were so certain then that it was the right choice.  Oh, but who am I to guess at your malaise?  Could just be signs of early menopause, too. 

Either way, dear P, I think it’s time to put down the Us Weekly and take action in your own life.  Tell the obc you’ve considered joining the Village Traffic Committee and actually contemplate such a horrifying step.  If nothing else, it will allow me to once again thin my quite chubby cherubs and relax in the knowledge that I can copy your every move without scrutiny.  It will not ultimately be a satisfying life, P, but certainly one that is quinessentially DC.  Who could ask for more than that?

Faithfully,

C.   

Dear C,

Congratulations on once again being the first family in the neighborhood to get their holiday decorations up.  Pray do tell just how you are able to pull this annual miracle off.  Do you and yours spring joyfully awake at one minute past midnight on the day after Thanksgiving, and wheel the Christmas tree into the front room, where it serves as a timely rebuke to everyone else on the street?  Or behind all the baubles and tinsels, is there a darker Christmas tale to be told? 

I ask because the Christmas Spirit is also breaking out chez nous, although in our case, the feeling is more akin to a bad case of hives.  Here’s are a few of our annual traditions:

1) Pick coldest, wettest day of year to buy Christmas tree.  Swear at each other more than any other day of the year putting it up.
2) Tell your spouse not to get you anything, then proceed to sulk when he/she doesn’t.
3) Spend Christmas Day screaming at your children for asking you to help with one more toy/game requiring a screwdriver, scissors and a Phd. in engineering to set up.
4) Wonder what kind of message your mother is trying to tell you by giving you a puce-colored sweater, size M.
5) Gain 5lbs in one day.
6) Decide you loathe everything/everybody.
7) Spend the day after Christmas trying to persuad AmVets to swing by and pick up all the gifts you received last year.

With any luck, I’ll get struck by a case of bird flu while in Britain.  That requires months of quarantine, right?

Merry Christmas!

P.

P.S. Nice touch, to have hubby nail himself to the roof by way of a live crucifix….or did he just get himself into a pickle again putting up the lights?