Dear A,

Ok, I've had the baby. I'm not going to lie. My boobs are bigger than his head.

'Nuff said.

Love, D

Dear D,

I’d be lying if I said your story didn’t make me hungry. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hot dog, let alone two. Although, from the looks of me, you’d think I eat them all the time; so much so that I no longer have a “muffin top” in my jeans, but an Egg McMuffin top – make that a Sausage McMuffin top (btw, merely typing the word “sausage” made me salivate).

It’s gotten so bad that I’ve stopped searching for my “fat jeans” and now look for my “fat underwear” - which has lead to another problem: laundry and having to do it more often to make sure my “uniform” is clean. Luckily I’m in France where the rule on wearing a fresh outfit each day isn’t as rigid.

If things continue, I might have to ask F if I can cheat on him and get back together with my confidence-destroying, soul-gutting ex. That seems to be the only “diet” that has ever really worked for me (that and losing a tooth). However, given that today is our 6 year anniversary, I'm not sure it's a good time to ask if he'd like to take a break.

Love, A

Dear A,

So you know, when you're pregnant, funny things happen to your body. Sure, the obvious, you grow a baby in your belly so your belly gets fat, your belly button looks like a Jackson Pollack painting, and your feet get swollen. This is what most never been pregnant women and men think when they think of physical pregnancy changes. What they do not think of is that when you cough, laugh, or sneeze, you can't hold your pee in (sometimes, that stays with you after the pregnancy!). Or, they don't realize that other parts of your body, say, oh, I don't know, your breasts change dramatically. Oh yes, they think the breasts get bigger (and they do, all that breastmilk coming in and the milk ducts getting ready for that). BUT, do they know about the other changes???

Case in point:

Location: Me and my youngest son, now 2, showering.

My son, pointing to my nipples: "Hot dogs!"

Yes, the nipples get incredibly big so that it's easy for the newborn to latch on for nursing. But nothing like a 2 year old's astute observation to make you feel good about those changes!

Love, D

Dear D,

Congrats to the hubby! I’m very impressed by his new gig; yet, I am a little surprised that a man of such few words would be a T.V. commentator. Maybe you can’t help him with his wardrobe, but I know you could write some material for him. Most of the jokes might be at his expense, but he needs to think about his public. I’d be much more inclined to tune in if I knew his commentary about the little arrows going up and down would be peppered with some of your zingers.

I’m having the same problem with gays in Paris. I actually responded to an ad on Craigslist posted by a gay man looking for friends. He claimed he was looking for straight friends too and I believed him. He didn’t even respond to my email proposing that we meet. I was rejected by someone desperate enough to take the time to post an ad. I knew I should have attached a picture of my gay bait husband.

I recently received an invitation from Democrats Abroad to attend their “LGBT Caucus Fund Raiser” – and I nearly went just to troll for gays. The only thing stopping me was the menu - “Jambalaya Celebration” - and the fact that I might be expected to give money.

Now, about the minivan, it really does make sense - just add “BMW” to the list of things you gave up when you became a mom (this being said by a woman who doesn’t have a car or kids). You’ll have the last laugh anyway when I’m begging one of your kids to come pick me and my wheelchair up in a minivan to drive me to my geriatrician. I really do admire the hard work it takes to be a mother. As we speak, the window in my bedroom is open and my cat is on the balcony. The last time I got up to check on him, he was gone. My heart stopped. I thought I was living an Eric Clapton moment. I eventually found the little guy under the bed. But seriously, I can’t even watch a cat without incident!

Love, A

Dear A,

I have to admit, that picture was pretty frightening, sort of Shawshank Redemption-y, if you ask me. But I'm sure a little fecal matter gets in the terroir every once in a while anyway!

So I forgot to tell you that the husband is famous now. He's a television star, with 4 appearances now on CNBC Asia and Bloomberg Asia. Seriously! He basically goes on and talks about stocks (you can imagine that this is not the reality television appearances that I was hoping for, but I think we're too old to be cast for the Asian Jersey Shore). Anyhow, now that he's done it a few times (and got back some constructive criticism), he actually thinks about what he's going to wear. Yes, this from the man who is still holding onto rugby and flannel shirts from 20 years ago.

But here's the problem, he doesn't know how to really match his shirts and ties. The second problem is that while I think I can put an outfit together, I can't match shirts and ties either. And the final, most humongous problem? I don't have any male gay friends in San Francisco anymore that can help me (or him)!!! What happened, Amy? I feel like someone is going to show up on my doorstep and rip away my Democrat card any moment now. I'm thinking of posting on Craigslist with the caption "I'll be your one Asian friend if you be my one gay friend. Must be able to talk shit." To add insult to injury? We decided to get a minivan to cart my many children and dog. Might as well drive that damn minivan straight to Utah...oh wait, I said damn. They won't let me in, anymore.

Love, D

Dear D,

I like the part about eating your kids’ ice cream. I always struggle with choosing just two flavors. I know triple scoops exist, but I don’t think that would be appropriate for me to order in Paris considering some here view drinking a third glass of wine as unladylike behavior. Plus, your kids are young enough that you can still order for them (i.e., choose the flavors you want) and simply appear to be an attentive mother as you pick junks of dried cookie dough off their cheeks and pop them into your mouth. As you said, you are trying to save on Kleenex and I commend you on this Earth Day for teaching your little ones that the environment is a priority!

To be honest, I never really understood how mothers could use those little mini turkey basters to suction snot out of their babies’ noses or suck a dirty pacifier clean. But yesterday I went down to our cave to get a few bottles of wine for dinner and was shocked to find them, as well as a few other negligible items like a computer and armoire, covered in mud - an odd smelling mud.

Our superintendent informed me that the building’s main evacuation pipe (pour les toilettes) had been clogged over the weekend. When it was unplugged, a leak ensued. He concluded that was the source of the mud explosion in our cave. In sum, our belongings are covered in a cocktail of my neighbors’ urine and fecal matter.

Without thinking twice, I retrieved some rubber gloves and pushed aside the computer until I could reach my beloved bottles of wine. I carried them upstairs where I carefully bathed each one of them, dried them with a fresh towel and lovingly placed them in the refrigerator.

Body fluids cannot get in the way of real love.

Love, A

Dear A,

At least the weather wasn't so cold that the snot coming out of your nose froze, leaving a silvery streak of freeze-dried-snot on your upper lip. I'm thinking that's not in fashion in Paris. That said, I feel like I'm constantly up to my ears (or should I say, nose?) in snot? I remember looking at kids and seeing runny snot all over their faces and thinking 'aw man, that is gross. It's called kleenex and guess what, it's not a new invention!'

But now I understand it. Wiping snot away from kids' faces is just a futile way of cleaning up. It's like a hoarder moving one box of crap from one room to another...useless, the junk is still there. And so it goes with my kids' runny noses. Perpetually there, so ultimately, it's a cost savings to not use kleenex and just let the snot fall where it may (most typically, on the left arm sleeve of the coat or shirt they are wearing).

Sigh...I also lick their runny ice cream, another thing I thought I'd never do.

Love, D

Dear D,

You’ve come to the right person for help. While I’m not in Demi Moore’s league, F is a youngling. The four year age difference hasn’t seemed like much over the years, probably because I’m incredibly immature, but as I approach my 40th birthday I’ve noticed there’s something about this number that makes the difference seem more obvious. It’s easier to do math with round numbers I suppose. It doesn’t help that younger women are showing an interest in my husband. We have a case of “Poison Ivy” on our hands in Texas. My sister informed me that my soon-to-be 16 year old niece thinks F is “hot” and goes around the house saying “Uncle F, grrrrr . . .” (allegedly just to make my sister uncomfortable; she’s inherited my inappropriate sense of humor). Anyway, if you really want to know if you’re a cougar, I suggest a visit to Paris. Last month when my (older) sister was here, she met several men, the average age being 25. It was a bit of a blow to my ego. I’ve lived here 4 years and think I’ve been approached twice. The most recent occurred two weeks ago. A man on the sidewalk stopped me to ask if I’d like to join him for a drink. I was in such shock, and laughed so hard that some snot came out of my nose. (It was chilly and I was getting over a cold.) Needless to say, he looked relieved when I told him I was on my way to meet my husband and declined his offer. In the cat world, I’m a spayed, domestic with mange.

Love, A

Dear A,

After watching that movie "17 Again," I had a dream about Zac Ephron. It's official. I'm a cougar. Someone slap a low cut shirt and strappy metallic heels on me, then just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

Love, D

Dear A,

I think it's so odd, or that's not the right word...intrusive when people feel free to insert opinion. It's not like you're some walking Mad Lib and it's written "I should ____ (insert verb) children." You know? Anyway, if somehow you want a kid or a kid experience, you can have one of mine. On a plane. For over 6 hours. That should prove to you that you're doing just fine with the fat kitty and skinny hubby.

But you're right...somehow, people think that having children is a necessary rite of passage for a woman. Almost as if you're not a whole person unless you produce offspring. It's one of those annoying stereotypes, societal expectations kind of thing that can really piss you off if you simply don't want to have kids (in my case, it's people expecting that I'm good at math because I'm Asian -- thankfully, my IPhone has a calculator app). But as a woman with two kids and one baking in the proverbial oven, let me illuminate a couple of myths about mommyhood.

1. Having a baby doesn't mean that you suddenly love all babies. Oh sure, you see your baby and you get all gooey inside. But that does not mean that you love all babies. Let's put it this way. After my second was born, it took me a full year to even tolerate holding someone else's baby. When a friend offered for me to hold her newborn, I actually straight up said "uh, no thanks." So it's not like becoming a mother suddenly means that you want someone else's kid's snot and spit up on your clothes.

2. Having a baby does not make you a kinder, gentler person. In fact, I'd almost argue the opposite. With the lack of sleep, the constant white noise of whining or crying, and the general expectation (both by oneself, one's mother, and one's mother-in-law) that you're going to be a perfect mom, you can get pretty nasty. Example. One friend and her husband had to promise not to mention the word "divorce" for the first year of their child's life. Why? Because you're both sleep deprived and nasty as shit, and of course, you take it out on each other.

3. Having kids does not strengthen a marriage. I could refer back to myth #2 here, but let me elaborate. If you're marriage is unsteady, for whatever small reason, sort of like an old wooden bridge, then imagine piling some big ass boulder sized rocks on it and see if that bridge withholds the pressure. Not. Having kids, while making it seem like now you're a "family" puts an insurmountable amount of pressure on people's relationship (because really, it's not all about you anymore) and you have to work incredibly hard to even remember to say "how was your day?" to your spouse.

I could probably go on and on. And for any mothers out there (less they think I am a less than the perfect mother), I really do love my kids and besides sacrificing my breasts for them, have sacrificed other fun things for them (like a career) because they really are worth it. But seriously, if a male ever looked at me and asked me why I didn't have kids yet or opine that I should have kids? I'd sock him right in the nuts.

Love, D

Dear D,

I hear you about flights from Hawaii. I've never seen so many ice chests wrapped in duct tape used as luggage. And I’m so sorry your little guy was THAT kid. On the way back from Kailua we were sitting in front of THAT family. They actually reminded me of you and your brood, which is the only reason they’re still alive today.

Speaking of babies, why do complete strangers feel free to tell me that I "must" have children? First of all, they don’t know my family history. They need to be careful what they ask for. Second, maybe I’m an expert at tuck jobs. They have no idea what’s underneath my skirt. I was once confused for a man over the telephone.

Most recently, it was a 26 year-old Algerian man in my French discussion group who lectured me about babies. When the discussion leader returned and asked if there were a particular topic we’d like to discuss, the guy said he’d like to talk about women who don’t want children. And the only reason he’s still alive today is because he looked like Jordan Knight from NKOTB. The school girl in me gave him a pass.

Love, A

Dear A,

Ha! I remember a time that you wouldn't want a French guy to deliver furniture to your place because you couldn't properly yell at them in French when he scratched your stuff. Now, I bet you could yell profanities pretty well (or at least the same level of a really mean 5th grader), but I suppose it is easier to be able to yell at F, since you can opt for French or English. Hm, Spanish, too, because I bet F's Spanish includes the word "cabron?" (and yes, I'm too stupid to figure out how to put accents on words).

We just rolled back in from week on Maui, where the kids and the hubby proceeded to get beautifully tan, and I remained the pale beached whale sitting in lounge chair. Ok, I'll be kind to myself, not so much a beached whale, but maybe just a lost sea lion (since I'm probably that loud and can get nasty for food, as well). Really, the only thing I hate about Hawaii is the plane ride to and fro. If I didn't have to travel with my kids, it would be so much better.

You know how on every flight, there is always that one kid? That one kid that is so fricken' loud that no amount of cuteness could make up for them and really, all you want to do is muffle it with a pillow (or your chest, like that mother did in *MASH* when that American convoy was traveling through Viet Cong territory and the baby starting to cry; although she muffled that baby to death, so maybe my analogy is getting a bit gruesome here...). Anyhow! That kid!! Well, that kid is MY kid. Seriously. My youngest has a mouth on him like no other and I'm only glad that he's 1 and not 17, mouthing off about how he got some girl pregnant but it's no big deal because he's got a job at the local surf shop. Sigh.

I think we can all guess who he takes after. But we have my husband to blame for his sperm!

Love, D

Dear D,

Thankfully you and your husband are reproducing because this world is in dire need of geniuses! And on this President’s Day, I’m sad to say that it seems we might need to wait for one of your children to turn 35 before we ever see the dramatic change we were all hoping for. In the meantime, perhaps you should send your whiz kid my way to hone his skills. He could fill an entire zoo just walking from my apartment to the métro.

Speaking of my apartment, after 6 months, we’re nearly finished decorating. I’m generally happy with the results, but I really thought I had arrived at a stage in my life where I would no longer be purchasing furniture that required assembly. Our elevator is so tiny that anything bigger than a nightstand has to be carried up 5 floors (6 American floors) or be hoisted through the window. It’s not like I’d be doing the lifting, but I would be the one here to greet the angry delivery man. I’d rather hang out with an angry husband while he assembles pieces of particle board and curses IKEA.

Love, A

Dear A,

So my three year old is finally potty trained. And not potty trained like he goes on the mini-toilet. But real-life potty trained, like he goes where my ass goes and every time he gets on I pray he doesn't fall in. Anyway, he has started to identify his shit. "That's a turtle." "Look, there's a snake." "It's a snail." I'm a little mortified, but also a little impressed at his creativity. I mean, if we can give credit to kids who look at clouds and see elephants and lollipops, then why can't we give kudos to my kid who sees Mickey Mouse in his shit? He just might be the next American genius.

Love, D

Dear D,

I know! I really can’t believe it’s been so long since I moved to Paris. Luckily, law school is just a memory that only resurfaces four times a year when the alumni association sends me a letter soliciting money (which I ignore, but with a little more guilt now because I know they paid extra postage). And, btw, you were never chubby. Ever! Remember? I’m the one who wore overalls nearly every day during bar review (the same pair no less, because really – and I don’t care what year it was – if you have all your teeth (ummm, ignore that!) - even one pair might be too many). And we, but especially me, should be thankful we passed the first time or I might have had to have added patches to them to take me through another BAR/BRI course.

Just one small correction: if we do the 2005-2010 calculation then you’re right re 5 years, but I like to count months like mothers do when stating the age of their children, since I often feel like a child here). I don’t mean to be picky, but technically it’s closer to 4 years. People tend to judge my French based on the time I’ve lived here and I prefer to limit their expectations. Hey, at least I’m not lying anymore like when I told the grocer I’d only been here six months so he’d think I spoke French really well considering. It’s just the French can be a bit critical when it comes to their language. They’re also critical when it comes to weight - so if TicTac plans on visiting me, she’ll have to drop a few. French dogs don’t get fat either (ok, they do, as do the women who walk them, but apparently the truth doesn’t matter when writing/selling books). Maybe you can put her on my “the toothless wonder” diet. Very effective and I’d have to go on it again if I ever wanted to wear those leather pants now. The overalls though . . . those are a different story. I could probably still squeeze into those.

As I’m writing this, I realize how much I miss you and how sad I am that I’m not there with you (or you here with me – which actually would be a better deal for you since France really is kid-friendly and offers great benefits for families). I’m counting the days until your big birthday trip - even though it’s still some time off, it gives me something to look forward to. A real friend would never wish a friend to get older after all (no matter how badly she wants to see her)!

Love, A

Dear A,

I can't believe it's been almost 5 years that you left me in San Francisco to, of all things (!), move to Paris with your French husband. Really, how could you?! And it certainly doesn't feel like it's been 10 years since law school, where we encountered competitive classmates, intellectually-superior professors (well, maybe not those adjuncts!), and insufferably small penises (metaphorically...well, and perhaps literally, too). Remember our 70's style apartment in Cow Hollow, me -- chubby and oblivious -- and you -- skinny and toothless? Ahhh, good times. What ever did happen to those leather pants?

Well, here we are now, separated by thousands of miles and a whole language. Good thing we are both still bilingual in Spanglish and "talking shit."

We've been able to keep up with the big ticket items. Our marriages. My 2 offspring. Your fetish kitty. My forever-dieting dog. And I guess it's ok that you missed out on some of the smaller things, this side of the Atlantic: in no particular order, Jon Gosselin, Sarah Palin, Kate Gosselin, Heidi Montag, and Johnny Weir's latest fur-laden skate costume. Hopefully, our little letters to each other here will keep each other abreast (mine, still small; yours, still big) of all the big and little things that life is bringing us.

Love, D