an open letter to Mama Llama

Oh Mama Llama. We have all been there, sister friend. We have. It’s one of those bedtimes that never ends. “I need a snack. I have to potty. One more story! Can I have a drink of water?” And after the 200th request you’re like go the eff to sleep, am I right?

Let me just say it’s not that I think you don’t love Little Llama. I do! I mean you say it flat out:

Little Llama don’t you know, Mama Llama loves you so.

It’s just that…well. You look really pissed when you bust into to the bedroom. Maybe you have some sort of syndrome where your outward physical appearance doesn’t match what’s happening on the inside? If so, forgive me. All I know is that I am an adult and if my mama gave me that face I’d be afraid. I’d be very afraid.

Maybe after you drop the phone, race up the stairs, and run down the hall, take a second before you head into the kid’s room to just breathe and rearrange the face into something a bit kinder looking It’s one of those age old struggle’s of motherhood, don’t let the kiddo know we sometimes can’t wait for them to pass out so we can check out Pan Am on the old DVR and raid their Halloween candy.

I say this all with love, but I fear that if you don’t soften that face Little Llama is going grow up to be one of those Llama husbands who just watches football in his boxer shorts while drinking beer and screaming at his own kids. And really, you don’t want that now do you?

And hey if you need some one to get those frustrations out to just hop on the twitterz. We’re there for you Mama.

Love, Me.