Dear sons,
I want you to know how proud I am to be your parent. This is not just a statement; it’s a heartfelt truth. Being the mother of four spirited boys like you is a joy, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. You are bright, compassionate, and you fill my soul with an indescribable happiness.
However, I need to address an issue that has been testing my patience. Your penchant for destruction has led me to create an imaginative escape—a “mind palace,” if you will. In this serene retreat, I envision a quaint, beautifully decorated cottage, nestled on a hillside with a breathtaking ocean view. This peaceful abode is free from chaos, devoid of Legos and NERF bullets. Instead, it’s filled with gentle breezes, soothing waves, tranquility, and the distant calls of seagulls.
I adore my mental sanctuary, and I find myself retreating there every time you manage to dismantle another piece of our home. Within this dream, soft colors, expansive windows, and elegant white furniture abound. My ideal coffee table and fireplace mantle are adorned with exquisite glass ornaments, tasteful vases, and artfully arranged books—silent treasures that hold great importance.
Your antics have pushed me to this fantasy world. But then reality hits, and I find myself standing in a hallway flooded with toilet water you’ve created after attempting to flush a dead squirrel along with some of yesterday’s laundry.
Your mother is keeping a record of everything you break—for future reference.
Consider this your official notice: Stop it. Or else.
If you don’t, I promise that one day, when you have your own place, I will come over and disrupt your life in ways you cannot even imagine. I’ll arrive with a warm smile, a hug, and a plate of your favorite cookies. While you’re enjoying this treat in your kitchen, blissfully unaware that I am there for mischief, I will be pouring something vile into your shoes. You won’t know until the next morning, when you’re late for an important meeting and discover the source of the stench.
I will take apart your lawn mower and use its blade on your favorite tree. I’ll boil a roadkill possum in your prized cooking pot and leave it for you to find. You can bet I’ll turn off your hot water heater and flip the breaker connected to your freezer. Your iPad? Your bathtub? Your glasses? They won’t stand a chance.
I might even throw a NERF gun straight at your new TV screen, ensuring it shatters beyond repair. While you clean up the mess, I’ll leave jelly fingerprints all over your couch, carve my name into your dining table, and hide butter in your washing machine. I’ll sneak gum into your dishwasher, bury your electric razor in the geraniums, and pour orange juice down your air vent. Those popsicles? I’ll unwrap them and stash them in your sock drawer. And every single battery from your electronics? They’ll find a new home in your fish tank.
My antics won’t stop at daytime. Oh no. I’ll spend the night.
As you sleep soundly in your cozy bed, I’ll be downstairs, briefly pressing a hot iron against your hardwood floors, just enough to warp them without triggering the smoke alarm. I’ll unstuff your couch cushions and pour sugar into your DVD player. Expect some lamps to crash to the floor, mirrors to shatter, and holes to appear in your drywall. Anything held together with screws? I’ll unscrew it. Your winter coat will have a turkey sandwich hidden in its pocket, and every flat surface will be smeared with VapoRub. I’ll even tear out the last ten pages of every book you own, just for good measure. And at 4:13 a.m., I’ll jump on your bed and demand breakfast—sans orange juice and eggs, as those will be hidden behind your furnace.
You might think, “Wow, this is quite a rampage! At least she hasn’t touched my car!”
Well, I did manage to scrape it deep with a garden trowel on my way in and siphoned out the gas. You’re now running on empty.
Listen closely, dear boys: There’s no item in this world that you could destroy that would ever diminish my love for you. Even if you burned our house to the ground (which, at your rate, is a possibility), I would still be grateful to be your mother. But make no mistake, it will still go on the list.
With all my love,
Mom
P.S. About those cookies I brought? I licked them all—very thoroughly.
In summary, the author expresses the challenges of parenting four energetic boys while humorously warning them about the consequences of their destructive behavior. Through a vivid imaginary escape, she conveys her love while also playfully threatening future mischief in their own homes.