Dear Facebook,

It’s one thing to mess with me, but another thing entirely to mess with my mother-in-law. Grammy is a good person. And when I sent her that photo album you were kind enough to allow me to create, you insisted she join your site to view the album.

All she wanted to do was see pictures of her darling grandchildren. Do you blame her? So, she joined. I’m not sure what happened next, but I blame you. You (or some not-so-nice spammer-type) sent friend requests from Grammy to all of my Facebook friends. Very sneaky. Not nice. How dare you?

Grammy would never do this. You’ve put her in a tough spot. Everyone makes mistakes, but I’m not sure I will forgive you for this one. Or whether Grammy will.

Insecurely yours,
Aidan

Dear Dad,

Wherever you’re fly-fishing these days, I’m sure there’s no Internet access. And if there were, you wouldn’t care or know how to use it. So I will keep this short.

I miss you more than I have ever missed anything. Your silly smile. Your dancing mustache. Your irreverent wit. Your tattered khakis. Your lunchpail wisdom. Your bottomless blues. Your tough love. Your bear hugs. Your bird calls. Your voice. Your laugh. Your “Hi, Hi” and “Morn, Morn.” Everything.

You should be fishing with us. But, alas, you are in distant waters.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I miss you deeply and love you madly.

Insecurely and always yours,
Maidy-Bunks Picnic

Dear Fathers,

Tomorrow is your day. Enjoy it. Put away the BlackBerry and the briefcase. Close the laptop. Turn off ESPN. Let the day roll by in slow motion.

Look. At your kids. Study them. Their smiles, their eyes, their elbows, their pinky toes.

Listen. To the laughter, the songs, the complaints, the phone-call from far away.

Taste. The food you make or order. That mid-afternoon beer (or four) you more than deserve. The moment that is fleeting.

Feel. The little hand clutching yours. The grips of that stroller you won’t need much longer. The pride that you’ve done a good job so far.

Smell. The sizzling bacon. The Play-Doh. The Sunday air.

Tomorrow is your day. Yes, there are hours to bill and bills to pay. There always will be. But this is your most important job. A job you won’t lose in a bad economy. A job you can’t quit in a good one. The best job.

Insecurely yours,
Aidan

“Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.” – Lord Byron.

Dear ILI readers,

As you read this, I am likely doing any of the following things:

1. Sitting in the backseat of a taxi en route to LaGuardia Airport sandwiched between two carseats holding two girls who are thisclose to vomiting.

2. Bent over a filthy airport changing station, removing vomit-soaked clothes from my girls.

3. Sitting on an airplane praying that we take off on time, that there are no lurking ear infections waiting to spring to maturity, that our plane is not defective, and that our fellow passengers like screeching (and vomit).

4. Sitting in a rental car between two vomit-crusted carseats filled with two vomit-crusted kids with brand new ear infections.

The point? I’m going away. To Wisconsin. The magical middle of nowhere. To fly-fish and spend time with family. Yes, this is the ideal destination for a rookie blogger with two tiny tots; a place with no air conditioning, no Dora, no Internet access.

I’m not going to lie. This last fact (no web access) troubles me because I have just started this blog and I love it and I haven’t missed a day (a sad, sad sign of obsession or perfectionism – take your pick) and I don’t want to miss a day. So what should I do?

First, research. Per the blogging experts out there, it seems I have a bevy of options: to give you guys a vacation from reading my blog, to post ahead of time, to sign up a guest blogger.

And since I do not like the idea of having gaping holes in my blogging, I won’t. There will be something here each and every day for you to read. But what should I write about? I gave it some thought and I had an idea: I will let you guys read my letters. Because in this modern age of email and social media and linking, letter-writing is a dying art. So sad. So I will not let it die. No, this letter will be the first in a series of letters – to people and creatures and inanimate objects. You’ll just have to wait and see.

And, no, these letters won’t look like the beautiful antique letter above. They won’t be quaint and coffee-stained. They won’t be handwritten. They will be typed and sent over the web. Not very old-fashioned, I know. There will be no ecru envelopes or licked stamps or mailboxes or mailmen involved in this equation.

But there will be words. Words that are true whether they are written now or later, in real-time or ahead of time. And that is something.

This is a good plan because letters are timeless. This is a good plan because I need to take a break once in a while. This is a good plan because there is something wrong about blogging from a rustic hideaway overrun by deer and trout and ticks.

I hope you like my letters. One of them might even be to one of you.

Insecurely yours,
Aidan