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