Normally when I read Heather Armstrong's monthly letters to her daughter, I mentally pledge to do a better job cataloging Connery's childhood and, critically, that of any future child, since I could start fresh and not have already missed writing stories about first teeth and temperament. Oh, and then I laugh like hell because she is so damn funny:
One of my favorite memories of your childhood will be the hours and hours we have spent as a family on this bed, your father and I sitting close together watching you perform somersaults or read books or sing along to Dora. Sadly, I also won’t be able to forget just how much Dora annoys me, and how at night when I’m trying to go to sleep I can’t get her chipper voice to stop playing over and over in my head, how just once I wish Quentin Tarantino were a guest director, and in the middle of the journey over the strawberry mountain, through the chocolate lake to Coney Island, a Deadly Viper Assassination Squad would pop out of the big blue bush and gun Dora down. Because then? Then there would be so much really useful learning.
Would someone give this woman a Pulitzer or something?