Playdates are Brutal, People

I am not a social butterfly.

I’m that jerk that walks into a room, leans against the wall and makes up sad, stupid stories about everyone around me (while smiling, mind you!) instead of engaging in human interaction.

All this has changed, however, in the past 10 years since having kids. When you have kids, you’re forced to talk to people whether you like it or not. You’re catapulted into a whole new universe where adults talk about:

  • Dora the Explorer like she friggin’ solved the mysteries of the double helix
  • potty training – blowouts, leakage, goddamn diaper rashes
  • 529 Plans. If you don’t have one, no one says anything, but 529 Plan owners use Morse Code via  eye blinking to communicate with each other to stay the fuck away from you. Carl and I don’t have one (we’re pariahs in our community), so the kids’ lemonade stand will have to increase their prices by a gazillion fold and be open 24 hours a day. Don’t know what a 529 Plan is? Never mind – by now, it’s too late for your kids. Tell them they’ll have to go to the School of Hard Knocks
And the worst conversation subject is PLAYDATES. These are little outings you schedule with another parent or several parents and you bring your kid and they bring their snotty kids to some place like their house (never invite parents and their kids to your house – your lack of Martha Stewart organizational know-how will be the the talk of the town for many months to come. Believe me), a park in sweltering heat, a germ-infested bounce house gym or Chuck E. Cheese where you’ll contemplate what horrible thing you did in life to land yourself in this place, this unhappy, full of crying children place. At least some Chuck E. Cheese venues serve beer! In pitchers!

I often don’t have anything in common with these parents and spend two or three agonizing hours smiling, nodding my head and occasionally grunting yes or no. I’m always happy when there’s food involved because I don’t feel as obligated to speak since I’m too busy stuffing my mouth. Mmm… food.

Forget it. I’m letting my agoraphobic tendencies shine and let our kids fend for themselves, Lord of the Flies style. Piggy! Give me the conch!

*Image of Rhana girl in the corner courtesy of The Black Apple
**Image of Lord of the Flies movie (1990) courtesy of

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