A Letter to My Husband From the Front Lines

My Dearest Wesley,
It's 2:00 in the morning, my opponent has launched his counterattack. I hope to prevail but my weaknesses are exposed. I scold, spank, bottle feed and rock as the battle rages on. I medicate, sing, dance and play meditation music. I feel the muscle cramps coming on, the desperate rage at my own helplessness and know that this battle isn't about strategy but sheer force of will. And I'm losing. 

I give it one last final shot and as you walk into the hallway to see me lying in the fetal position while the foe howls from his chambers, you believe me to be a fallen soldier. Yet, as you go to release my prisoner of war, I proclaim, "We do not negotiate with terrorists!" Sadly, this falls on deaf ears as you release my prisoner and he laughs in his triumph. 

I cede the battle to Baby Bish this night. I may have lost this one, but I will not lose the war! 

I am mother - hear my cry! 

Until the next round.

Your exhausted and stubborn wife.

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