Sorry I Peed on You (and Other Heartwarming Letters to Mommy)

BOOK: Sorry I Peed on You (and Other Heartwarming Letters to Mommy)
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Sorry I Peed on You
© 2011 by Jeremy Greenberg. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews. For information, write Andrews McMeel Publishing, LLC, an Andrews McMeel Universal company, 1130 Walnut Street, Kansas City, Missouri 64106.

E-ISBN: 978-1-4494-0648-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010930551

www.andrewsmcmeel.com
www.sorryipeedonyou.com

Cover design by Ren-Whei Harn

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Dear Mommy,

Listen, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, and I know that you’re just doing it out of fun, but don’t you think I’m getting a bit old to be playing peekaboo? Shutting your eyes does not make you invisible. I know you’re there. When I was younger, I totally bought it. But I’ve used the big-boy potty seven times now, and I can point to anything that’s yellow. Clearly, my intellect has moved on. Sure, just the other day, you covered your eyes and asked, “Where’s Mommy?” to remove your hands only seconds later and say, “Here I am!” and I giggled hysterically. But remember that I paused a second before giggling—it was a polite hint.

There are a lot of new games we can play, Mommy. I’m tall enough to reach the countertops now, so how about “Where’s Mommy’s Cell Phone?” Or now that I can open the childproof cabinets, we can play “Mommy, Look What I Found in the Garbage.”

You’re the best mommy in the whole world, and I appreciate your understanding. Please don’t get too upset. The last thing anyone wants is a repeat of “I Got Your Nose.”

Love,

Jack

Dear Mommy,

There’s been a breach in sector 2 of the fish stick containment unit. My fish sticks touched the ketchup and have been rendered inedible. Analysts are trying to figure out how the French fry barrier was breached. Be careful, Mommy. Just to be safe, I’m not going to eat another bite. I know that you’re trying to say it’s going to be okay, that it’s just a little ketchup and that I love ketchup on my French fries. Duly noted, but as a precaution, I think I should evacuate the high chair.

Love,

Kole

Dear Mommy,

Do you think Buddy knows he has four legs? How come Buddy’s bed has his name on it, but mine doesn’t? I want my name on my bed. If I had four legs could I pee in the yard? Can I pee in the yard if it’s my birthday? When is Buddy’s birthday? Did Buddy wear diapers when he was a baby? How come Buddy doesn’t have any friends? Is Buddy a loser, Mommy?

Buddy and I like to play chase. I chase him, and then he chases me, then I chase him, then he tries to take a nap. I think, “Why is Buddy taking a nap? I’ve only been chasing him for three hours. Maybe he’s hungry.” So then I ask you for a snack but throw it on the floor for Buddy. But I think Buddy’s still tired. Can you make him a cup of coffee? I gave him a sip of yours while you were in the bathroom, but he just stuck his tongue in it once, sneezed, and went back to sleep—but I think that’s because he didn’t want to drink your germs.

Love,

Macy

Dear Mommy,

Something’s wrong with my jungle gym. It keeps saying “Daddy’s out of breath,” and “Oh, be careful, honey. Daddy’s going to tear his rotator cuff.” Why doesn’t the jungle gym understand that if it tears its cuff, you’ll just hem it like you do your pants? But there’s a lot that I love about my jungle gym. The top half can turn bright red when I hang on its neck too long. The jungle gym at the park can’t change colors, and the one at the park can’t scream, “Ow, honey, that hurts!” either. I am very lucky!

Mommy, I really love my jungle gym, and climbing is very good for my motor skills development. So if the jungle gym
is
running out of breath, can you tell it not to waste any of it complaining about back spasms or slipped discs?

Love,

Madeline

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