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An Open Letter to My Two-Year-Old Daughter About Men

Candy's Column

An Open Letter to My Two-Year-Old Daughter About Men

Dear Miss Skye,

Your love affair with Weston is over, as done as the box of Oreo knock-offs I just devoured.  You never said a word to me about why you parted ways with your first love and I never pried, hoping you would come to me whenever you felt comfortable talking about it.

That day never came.

Instead, I had to pick up clues here and there, like the morning Weston approached us on his tricycle and said, “HI, SKYLAR!” and you stared at him as if he had threatened to glue construction paper on your head.  Or when I would ask, “Did you play with Weston today?” and you’d scowl, “No, Weston not my friend.”

A subtle clue that things had gone sour between the two of you, but one that made your almost freakishly perceptive mother think, “Huh.  I guess Skye isn’t so crazy about Weston anymore.”

Perhaps you tired of him walking up the slide as you were trying to go down.  Or had a blow-out about his unwillingness to help clean up in the toy kitchen.  I guess I’ll never know for sure.  That’s okay; to be honest, I was happy about your newly single status.  I had hoped you simply realized that, unlike Jennifer Lopez, you didn’t have to have a man in your life to be happy.  That there were more important things to dedicate your young life to, such as preparing for your future career as a neurosurgeon or Supreme Court Justice.  And learning to use the potty.

Then I saw it:  the way you look at Max.  Of course.  I should have known another man was involved.

Did I say “look at” Max?  No, more like run after Max.  You light up when you see him on the playground, immediately following him wherever he goes.  He, from what I can tell, pays virtually no attention to you.

Oh, Skye, I thought to myself.  I’ve chased after those boys, myself — the aloof ones, the indifferent ones who read Elmo books in the corner with nary a glance at you.  The thrill of the chase is exciting, I know, but I can tell you from experience:  trying to ensnare boys like Max only leads to disappointment.  Not to mention wasting too much time reading Elmo books in the corner when you could be doing something so much more exciting, like doing your first poo-poo on the potty.

So I did what any concerned mother would do — and fished for more information about this young man.

“Do you like playing with Max?” I asked carefully, searching your face.

“Yes!  I like Baby Max!” you replied, putting your Curious George doll in Drew’s Jumperoo.

“‘Baby Max?’  But… he’s not a baby.  He’s about the same age as you.”

“Max my baby.  I pat Max back… put Max to sleep…comb Max hair…”

Let me get this straight:  Max is a “baby” who likes to be taken care of?   Huh.  On second thought, this relationship should prepare you well for any time your future husband gets sick.  Carry on.

With love and hope you will show interest in the potty again someday soon,


Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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