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From the desk of Mrs. Cranky

Dear two separate women who tried to guess the provenance of Charlie's clown clothes: Okay, maybe I am crazy to spend so much on so little. Maybe I deserve your raised eyebrows when I confirm your guess. Maybe next time I'll answer brightly, "No! Filthy sweatshop in Myanmar! But close!"

Dear woman in the restaurant who looked pointedly at Paul, then tried to guess the provenance of Charlie's blue eyes: Maybe next time I'll answer brightly, "Oh, those? We don't know whose spunk those come from!"

Dear tense-looking woman herding four kids through the children's wing of the library: How do you spell your son's name? If it's Lennon, hahahahahaha. If it's Lenin, hahahahahahahaha.

Dear Charlie, who is valiantly trying to pull up to a standing position: Mama is very, very proud of you. You are big and strong and brave and fine. Yes, you are. Yes, you are! Now allow me to find you a different handhold, because my pubic hair, grasped tight in your sweaty fist through the fabric of my yoga pants, isn't safe for babies.

Dear hesitant toddler who obviously wanted to approach Charlie but was simply too shy: Go on. He's friendly. He won't hurt you.

Unless you have pubic hair.