First, let me introduce myself.  My name is Brooke, and I went to college with Chrissy.  Does this mean we share many scandalous stories? Yes. Will I be sharing any of them with you? Nope. Chrissy asked me to write a guest post this week while she is taking the week for her and Brian. Now, there are a few things about this that I think you should know.  I have never written anything for public consumption.  The very idea of doing so is vaguely terrifying to me. I have no freaking idea why this is, as I was a COMMUNICATIONS major in college. The basic premise of communicating is using words to interact with others. Yep, I get how incongruous this is with my aversion to writing for you.

None the less, I am not a blogger and so this entire concept has me terrified that you will all point and laugh at me, the guest poster in this digital high school lunch room of a blogiverse. But I love Chrissy, and I love Brian, and since I cannot make them lasagna or gnocci during their bereavement, I will discuss my life here, with the hope that it will amuse you and bring a smile to my Chrissy’s face. So. Hello, my name is Brooke, and it’s nice to virtually meet you. Kinda.

Now, I think we have all been told by our mothers at one time or another that they hope our children will end up being exactly like us one day. In my case, this happened every day during my “I hate everything that you do” phase that lasted roughly from age 12 until 16.  I know, long phase. My poor mother.  Anyway, when they say that, you always think that you’d LOVE to have a kid just like you, since you’re awesome, right? Me too. However, I have recently come to the realization that my almost three year old daughter is becoming a carbon copy of her darling mother. And I’m kinda petrified.

I was born without a verbal filtration system.  This has come back to bite me on so many occasions that I cannot even describe them because they all run together in a long train of “OMG, did I actually just say that OUT LOUD?!?” Yep. Sure did.  But I’ve tried to teach my daughter that it’s important to be considerate of other people’s feelings. Or whatever. But it’s obviously not working.  Let me give you an example.

The other day, my husband and daughter were playing on the couch. This is a normal occurrence, so I wasn’t paying much attention to what they were saying. But suddenly my daughter jumps up and states that she is now “Eric”. This might make you ladies think she means she watches too much True Blood, but she was instead referring to her aspiration of being the little mermaid. All attempts to explain that she can’t be Eric AND a mermaid simultaneously have fallen on deaf toddler ears. Whatever. So, my husband gamely responds with “Ok, I’ll be Ariel!”  Yeah, he’s a good dad like that, and he’s secure in his masculinity. Or maybe he harbors a secret desire to wear a seashell bra. Well, who doesn’t?? No judging.

He then begins singing this atrocious yodel type song that closely resembles what I imagine a moose with a broken leg would sound like while calling to his moosey buddies for a splint and a margarita. My daughter looks at her father and says “Daddy! No, don’t do that! Your singing is a horrible noise!!”

Yep, I’m a failure as a mother.  She is indeed going to be exactly like me, with a complete inability to conceal her sarcasm and disdain.   But on the upside, if I could just get her to incorporate the word “pitchy” into her critiques, she might have a career ahead of her as a judge on one of those “I’m The New Best American Singer Ever” reality shows. See?  Verbal diarrhea is now an employable skill. Yay for reality TV!