To One Who is In North Carolina. Or Maybe It's New York. I'm Not Really Sure and That Pains Me.

Dear Shelley:

I'm sorry to tell you that my husband doesn't like pickles. He is, however, very much like we imagined our husbands to be. He is fine, and he is handsome, and he treats me very well. He is not the twin of your husband, something I distantly recall being in the plan. My two sons, however, both adore pickles, and that came as a bit of a shock. At least it was a shock in Asher's case after I plopped a pickle down on his high chair tray when he grunted for it for a solid five minutes. "There. Let's see how you like that," I condescended with all the confidence of a mother who knows how things would turn out. Because mothers ALWAYS know how things will turn out. I was wrong.

Has it ever occured to you that the best parts of our friendship have always been written? When we've been distant, it was always a letter that reminded me how much of me you formed. Or it was a journal entry that you trustingly shared with me that let me know how deeply you cared about whatever it was you cared about. Or it was a late night tome that we addressed to some kid in Vermont that you met at the Hill Cumorah pageant. Who else gets hyper and then decides to write letters? No one. That's the truth.

And now you have two children that I barely know and one I don't know at all. Most of the time this is okay, because Tyler is now my best friend, as I know Matt is yours. It is good to have husbandly best friends. But there's just something about the original, you know? The best friend you imagine when you see the broken-in-two best-friend heart necklace and think, I should give this to my BEST friend. Or the best friend you imagine when you want someone to talk you into going rollerskating; because that's what best friends do. Or the best friend you imagine when you want to write a blog post to your best friend. Somehow I don't see Tyler wearing the heart necklace.

You and I are bad and being friends at a distance. There. I said it. But you know what? I've been improving myself lately. I aced day one of cleaning my kitchen nightly, and I've written three daily blog posts in a row. So I think I'm ready to give it a try. I am very sorry for ten years of distance. Will you forgive me the letters I didn't write you on my mission and the letters I didn't write you on yours? Will you forgive me the correspondence I failed to keep up while you were in Manhatten falling in love with your husband? Will you forgive me the questions I never put in to email when we were trying to figure out how to be mothers? Will you forgive me the cards of sympathy I didn't send when Matthew was in the hospital with botilism?

Otherwise, I'll continue thinking of you everytime I open up a jar of pickles. Because one really needs a best friend who loves pickles.

Love,

Laura