Dear Bebe

Dear Bebe,

I'm reading a book by Anne Lamott called Imperfect Birds and I would be lying if I didn't say that I'm already dreading your teenage years.

I have no doubt that we'll have a good relationship, one that is friendly without being friends and has boundaries but no true limits.  I'm the true Nick Carraway - I have the capacity to reserve judgment until I'm full to bursting - and don't worry, you'll have a lot of freedom to grow, experience, mess up, eventually get it right.  I'll probably surprise you, and a lot of my friends and family, with my quasi-hippiesque approach to child rearing and the only times you'll hear any complaints about your grades or career ambitions is if they are coming from your own mouth.

So please, do me a huge favor and don't get hooked on drugs.  Say no to illegal/illicit/over the counter/under the counter/top shelf/bottom shelf/for human consumption/for animal consumption/natural/chemical/organic/synthetic drugs of all kinds.

Please.

And when I approach you head on with a direct question, don't lie to me. Trust me - the only time I'll go ballistic is if I discover that you're lying to my face (except if they are harmless white lies that make me feel thin or pretty).

I won't be mad because of the back story or the content of your lies, it's the balls out deception that will put me over the edge.

When you're old enough to be interested in reading full length novels, I'll give you a copy of Imperfect Birds and you can read it for yourself and then do everything in your being not to become Rosie and turn me into pathetic Elizabeth.

That's all for today,

Ciao, Bella.