[an open letter to my adoring husband]
Dearest loving husbandmanperson Jeff,
Today I write to you with a simple request: I want a Hoopling. Now I know we’ve discussed this before, ad nauseam. And I know that, as rational adults, we are in agreement that now is not the time*. I agree with you, rationally, that it would be unpleasant to have to live in a van down by the river with this Hypothetical Hoopling. I agree with you, rationally, that HH (Hypothetical Hoopling) would have a rather inauspicious start to life, when we set it to work busking for its keep by the age of two. I agree with you, rationally, that I am only twenty four and you are twenty six (which bytheway is really old) and with any luck, we will have many years left for Hoopling research and development.
HOWEVER I believe there is are a few things which you fail to take into account, in your heartless and incessant denial of my heart’s fondest wish. They are:
HH will be freaking adorable, in looks and personality (how could it not be, given its gene pool?).
HH will be freaking hilarious. I’ve heard the stories from your mom, and mine is still recovering from my childhood escapades. Our child will be a laugh-a-minute. Or at least, a laugh-or-else-you’ll-cry-a-minute. Same thing, right?
HH will be a freaking genius (maybe it will have a brilliant literary mind, and be able to come up with a better adjective to express magnitude than ‘freaking’. (“Honey? Give Momma a synonym for ‘really’.”))
And statistically speaking, HH will probably be batshit insane. You don’t add “batshit insane” + “batshit insane” and get “absolutely normal”. Just doesn’t work that way.**
So here is my petition to you, dear husband: give me a Hoopling – or three or four or five – with your curly hair and my pointy chin and your reasoning skills ($diety help us all) and my stubbornness and your sense of humor and my dimples. Or else I’ll punch you.
PS>Why yes, I am PMS-ing. How did you know?
PPS>As I’m sure you know, it’s two years ’till you graduate law school. Two years is a long time. I know we agreed “no Hooplings ’till after law school”. But how about “no Hooplings ’till almost after law school”? Or “only one Hoopling ’till after law school”? Compromise, dude. It’s the name of the game.
PPPS>They’re very small, you know. Only seven to ten pounds. Hardly any trouble at all. I’m sure Roxie would even share her kennel.
*ok, how ’bout…now? No? ….now?
**Case in point: me.