Hi again, how are the kids, how’s Brad, blah blah blah…ARE YOU HAVING ANOTHER BABY?? Oh my God. Are you insane, woman?? I know you may find this hard to believe but I am truly not stalking you. I mean, stalking is such a harsh term, don’t you think? It’s just that it’s hard not to notice you, being that every time I go to the grocery store (which is every day because I have a lot of kids – although “a lot” is relative because I actually only have half as many as you and Brad) I see your ridiculously glowing face and am forced to read some new rumor about you. The latest being that you’re pregnant again. I can’t believe that’s true, I mean, my twins are older than your twins and I wake up every day thanking my OB for having the good sense to tie my tubes.
Maybe I shouldn’t take everything you do so personally. I’m sure you don’t mean to try and one up me -or four up me as the case will be if you have another baby. But seriously, stop it. You’re making me look bad. How am I supposed to whine on a constant basis to anyone who will listen to me about how sucky my life is with twins and a toddler when you are going around having babies as often as Joan Rivers goes in for a nip/tuck? This twins thing is really hard – like mind numbingly hard. We talked about that remember ? I can barely leave the house every day by nine a.m. with one of my children (although that child, who shall remain nameless but is four-years-old and very into Ariel, feels the need to spend an hour and a half picking out just the right tank top to wear to school when it’s forty degrees outside in the sun) yet you manage to haul the entire brood back and forth to France and then off to somewhere like Bangladesh to run a food bank or film a political epic like you’re just stepping out to grab the mail. Every time I see a picture of you, you’ve got a kid in each arm, two in Brad’s knapsack and a few more trailing behind. AND YOU WANT MORE.
I’m still mourning the fact that I had to buy a minivan. When my husband drove me to the Honda dealer to pick up my new Odyssey, I think I knew exactly how a dog feels when it’s being driven to the vet to have its testicles chopped off. Sure my husband put some kickass flames on the sides to take some of the sting out of driving a total momobile, but they’re magnetic flames, because it’s a lease. So not cool! Whatever antidepressant you’re taking is the hardest working drug in showbiz because I would be crying in my bathtub with a bottle of Bombay gin right now if my husband even hinted at having more kids.
Why are you trying to make me look bad?
You’re not even back up to your pre-pregnancy weight from the twins. I don’t think you should be allowed to get knocked up again until you’ve at least packed on ten or fifteen pounds! Aren’t there laws about this? Don’t you ever just make a big old pot of Kraft mac and cheese, only to find out that Pax refuses even one bite so then you just go to take a little taste to see if there was a problem with it – like the powder didn’t mix in well enough with the pasta, butter and milk –and next thing you know you wake up next to an empty pan with a big old wooden spoon in your hand and a tell-tale bright orange mouth? Obviously not. Haven’t you ever bought full fat Ben & Jerry’s ice cream “just for the kids” only to have Sahara or Ex-lax cry “Mommy ate all the Cherry Garcia! Bad mommy. Bad mommy!” sending you into a shame spiral until the next time you buy a pint and devour it mindlessly while watching the latest rose ceremony on The Bachelor? Are you even human?
You don’t have to prove that you’re more than just a beautiful face. We get it. Sure it was weird when you were doing irresponsible starletish things like marrying Billy Bob and talking about bringing knives in the bedroom but it’s not like you shaved your head and went to a mental hospital. You’ve never even done one single stint in rehab. So why all the effort to prove you’re superwoman?
You win, Angelina. You had me at the whole breast feeding twins  thing. At this point you’ve got Jon and Kate shaking in their boots. I bet even the Duggars’ have you on their radar. Please, Ang, I’m begging you mom-to-mom, stop trying to make motherhood look so easy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have three tons of laundry to fold, a vomit covered bathmat (don’t ask) to clean and an Exersaucer to disinfect (has to do with the whole vomit situation). But I’m sure you have to go anyway. You probably have a Red Carpet to walk.
Please keep our talk in mind,