Dearest C,

Wait a minute – there was a hubby before hubby?! Did he die in a horror jet-ski accident before being miraculously coming back to life and marrying your evil step-sister who secretly gave birth to you in a cave and is therefore, unbeknownst to you, your biological mom?

While I admire how you choose to save such revelations for choice moments, dear C, I cannot help but feel a little hurt that you did not choose to confide this essential information to me earlier. I may have unjustly acquired the reputation for blurting out other people’s deepest secrets at the drop of a Cosmo (or any kind of alcohol) but rest assured, I would never breathe a word to Number 2, as I feel I must refer to current hubby from now on, for fear that it may lead him to entertain dark thoughts about the paternity of ‘his’ children.

Come to think of it, while there can be no doubt about the swarthy origins of your middle two cherubs, when it comes to both the oldest and youngest, one cannot help but remark on the startling presence of golden curls. Forgive me for saying this, dear C, but isn’t your own fairness a rather recent phenomemon?

Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word – at least while I’m sober, which I fully intend on remaining, as part of my new health regimen. Of course, there is the little matter of dinner at the new Indian tomorrow night, but I fully intend to stick to Naan bread, and maybe a little boiled rice. Far be it from me to risk the break up of such an idyllic home – or worse, the revelation for hubby that the woman he married is not the blonde he thought she was – for the sake of a few beers and a plate of their (reportedly, delicious) murgh tikka masala.

Mum’s the word,

P.

Dear C,

Knowing how you like to keep up to date with current affairs, and your deep concern for the romantic choices made by a certain young actress (Katie Holmes), I thought you might like to hear the latest reports on her blossoming pregnancy.  More troubling than the rumors of an immaculate conception is the notion that Ms. Holmes is said to be entertaining of giving birth ‘the Scientologist way’.  Apparently, this not only involves a refusal to take any kind of medication; it also requires the birthing mother to remain silent and refrain from screaming during the entire proceedure, for fear of traumatising the emerging child.  Presumably, any woman in labor who chooses to question the wisdom of such edicts will be labeled ‘misguided’ by Ms. Holmes’ paramour and immediately sent to re-training camp for a crash course on vitamins.

Given the fact that you and I are as yet personally unaquainted with Ms. Holmes, and that she is unlikely to give our reservations on the matter of natural childbirth the time of day, what do you think about the idea of presenting the mother-to-be with a crash course on sign language, by way of a gift for her baby shower.  At the very least, she should learn the signals for ‘Give me the f**** drugs, you deranged b****, I don’t give a sh@t what your dumb@ss religion says,’ don’t you think?

Faithfully,

P.

P,

As you were present at the birth of my youngest cherub, I think you may already know that I would provide a Madonna-like model for Ms. Holmes.  Of course I’m referring to the mother of Jesus and not the English wanna-be entertainer who, apparently, agreed to forsake squeezing a child from her loins in order to experience the relative convenience of a c-section.  Which brings to mind whether a surgical procedure makes medication de rigeur.  As I suspect it doesn’t change the male Scientologist perspective at all, may I suggest a frontal lobotomy for all who may fall in this group sans anesthesia?  Alas, as the entire religion is centered around a belief in a hack who made a fairly desperate living as a science fiction writer, it appears this may already have occurred.

My only hope, dearest P, is that Ms. Holmes is able to tell Mr. Cruise with dead calm shortly after the birth, "How is it possible that something so small between my legs produced something so large?"  Can only hope it forces the aging icon’s lips together momentarily, allowing a reprieve from the brilliant sunshine of his smile.

Faithfully,

C.

Dearest P,

As we discussed yesterday, I was able to spend Mother’s Day with the woman who gave birth to me some few number of years ago.  Unfortunately, it was my father’s failing health that took me there.  As I felt the constant tug from hubby to return to the brood ASAP, I learned how wise it was to not let me wander much further than my parents’ doorstep.  It appears that I  could find all sorts of trouble.

You see, dear P, I met my father’s cardiologist –the one who treated him last year and saved his life just last week.  You do know I have a weakness for men of power and white coats (there are support groups for that I think) so you can imagination the thrill of shaking the hand of a man who whisked my padre from the clutches of death.  When he mentioned he found my demeanor very helpful to my dad’s care, and that he hardly believed I could be the mother of four (can hubby prove their maternity, really?), I nearly swooned.  As my father mentioned I should be taking copious notes in the presence of any doc (revert to childhood chastizing–a very good sign that he is better), I used my notebook as a shield.  I would, I think, have run to the nearest doctor’s lounge with him if he said one more word.

Alas, as is always the case, reality, if not good sense, prevailed.  I noticed his wedding ring, and mine, and it occurred to me that his wife probably complained in all the same ways I did (but just whose life is my husband saving these days?).  In any case, I reported dutifully to dad concerning his condition and spoke of prognosis and options.  As he absorbed the content of the dr’s chat with me, and checked out the rear end of the nearest nurse, I realized how much we two do share.  Enough to bring tears to this daughter’s eyes.

Faithfully,

C.   

Dear C,

As someone who found herself sucking in her stomach for the anesthesiologist administering her epidural (never before has a grown man in a shower cap looked so sexy), I can fully appreciate the feelings you had towards your father’s cardiologist. It also goes a long way to explain the thing the oldballandchain seems to have had for his childhood orthodontist – all that pain administered by someone whose breasts were in his face. But as you so rightly point out, such fantasies are based on the illusion of power these people project. Sure, they can save your life or make the pain of childbirth magically disappear; but would they be any better than at doing the soccer run or fixing that leaky toilet? Alas, dear C, I am afraid that underneath that sexy uniform, these men are only human – all too human. As for your notion that nagging phone calls from home only serve to feed such daydreams, this is confirmation to me that in future, our children must accompany our spouses on all future business trips. And on no account are they to wear a little white coat – except, of course, in the privacy of the marital bedroom.

Faithfully,

P.