If you are a nursing mother and you haven’t fed the little one in awhile and you decide, on your way home from the library, to stop at a pizza place and pick up dinner, do not, while you wait for your order, spend your time gazing at your baby, thinking how beautiful she is.

I don’t have to explain, do I?

And I used to be embarrassed by a runny nose.

JellyBean is still bafflingly sick, mentally alert but unwilling to get out of bed, and reluctant to drink enough fluids. I finally persuaded her to eat today, but she was only willing to eat dry Cheerios. The vomiting stopped, but yesterday she was exploding from the other end, and we were low on pull-ups, so I went to the grocery store to stock up.

I pushed my cart around the store, checking out the sales, filling the cart with the convenience foods I settle for when pregnant. I felt a little grateful that the cart blocked the inch or two between where my shirt stopped and my pants began.

When I finally made it to the checkout line, pull-ups acquired, the girl behind the counter gave me the once-over and asked, “When are you due?”

The conversation went on from there. Was it a boy or a girl? How many children did I have? How old were they? I answered her questions a little uncomfortably, but I answered them. She was surprised that my girls were so young.

“I figured you’d probably have a girl my age,” she said.

I did a little math in my head. Oh. In my neighborhood it’s not especially unusual to have a first baby when you are eighteen. She had a point.

So I have a sick little girl who is keeping me worried all the time, I am hugely and uncomfortably pregnant, and I am old. Great day.

Dear bloggity friends,

In the interest of honesty, I have decided to tell you all exactly what I think of you.

In my mind, all of you have cleaner houses than I do. They smell fresher and they get more sunlight. You have actually decorated, rather than throwing up bookshelves on every available wall and stuffing them haphazardly with more books than they should hold.

You all drive much nicer cars than I do (that is assuredly true), and they rarely smell like rancid milk and toddler vommit. You cook homemade recipes at every meal, with many healthful vegetables and low-sugar desserts full of fiber.

You smile patiently at your families and never lose your temper. You know where to place the polite niceties in conversation and you mingle well at parties. You achieve your goals, but feel no need to trumpet them.

You are all thinner than I am, and your hair is shinier.

While your children could not possibly be smarter than mine (I have some snobbery, after all), they have much greater social skills and you dress them with more fashion sense. My smart kids name their letters and recite their books and then go outside in their hand-me-downs to play with rocks and eat the dirt.

Despite this, my children are naturally more adorable (but then you can’t have everything).

While some of you have tried to portray yourselves as ordinary or imperfect, I don’t buy it. I suspect you are merely putting on a facade, interacting with the common folk as part of a conspiracy involving the Patriot Act and FBI phone taps, or possibly spying for SMERSH or Graco. I haven’t worked out all the details yet.

But I am on to you.

Sincerely, Veronica