I was going to write this letter to you yesterday, but then I figured I’d wait until it was officially your gig.  Like, maybe you’re some sort of diva who won’t even talk about what’s expected of you until you’ve officially got the job.

So, welcome!  A lot is expected of you.  If you haven’t heard yet, your predecessor was kind of an  asshole.  And by kind of, I mean a complete and total asshole.

You need to make up for that, which is going to be a big job.  It’s not going to be easy, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

Please keep my family and friends healthy and happy, and heal my friends who are sick.  Bring the expected babies into the world without drama, and make sure they are healthy and chubby and cute.  Because we don’t need no ugly babies.  Or any more sadness and sorrow.  2009 gave us enough of that. For a lifetime.

You are the year Dylan will start t-ball and Kindergarten and the year Zachary will start Preschool.  You are the year I will get organized, if it kills me.  You are *hopefully* the year that DJ will see a load of stress lifted off his shoulders, and will see us moving into a new home.  Let’s make sure those last two happen, m’kay?

You are the year I will win the lottery, the year I will become a walking Ann Taylor Loft ad, the year I will start to wear jewelry on a consistent basis, and the year I will buy myself a designer handbag without feeling loads of guilt.

You are MY year.  We will be friends and I will be sad to see you go.  You, however, will probably not be sad to say goodbye to me.

I WILL OWN  YOU.

Love,

Meg

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