When I was a child playing outside all day long with dozens of other kids in front of our concrete buildings, there were times when an adult, probably crazed by our continuous noise, was coming out on their balcony and was just yelling at us all: “ia, fiecare la scara lui!” – I am not sure how to translate this better than “now f*ck off to your own homes, you little trouble starters!“
Suddenly everyone was quiet, looking to see who was speaking, just to destroy with hurtful looks the kid whose parent suddenly spoiled the fun. Of course nothing stopped us anyway. We probably moved 5 feet to the right and continued our…whatever we were doing back then playing with a ball, rocks or just running around like crazy, pumped chihuahuas.
Forty years later I get it. Not only that, I am also not sure what keeps me (still) to actually be that parent. Kids are cute and nice. Kids on sugar and social media are cuter and nicer. Up until a point they’re not anymore. I know you love your own, just as I love mine. Can we skip the I feel like I might become offended part?
My partner in crime and I do not fancy kids. Wait! My partner in crime and I do not fancy kids anymore. Wait! My partner in crime and I do not fancy kids anymore, especially if they are under that age where we cannot crack a joke together and actually have a laugh and a smart reply. Do you want some kids to go with the ribeye? No, thank you, I’m good, I’ll take it medium rare, no side kids, please.
I am at that stage where I want to have a glass of wine without anyone running around my table and screaming they feel like peeing. I want to check in at a hotel and hear nothing but the sound of the A/C in the lobby. I want to meet my adult friends and actually be able to finish my one sentence without some crocs-lover-ball-of messy-hair screaming they lost their crayons. I want to sit at a terrace and look at the sea without some cute-little-muffin screaming moooom, look, i am doing a cartwheel while my coffee gets all the sand thrown in the air during the movement. And, between us, it was not even a properly executed cartwheel. I want to have a conversation without any mention about kids that are still wearing diapers, throwing tantrums, or did not yet pass their SAT exams. Find me in a couple of years. Until then, I’m not that entertained. Anymore.
Been there, done that, probably annoyed the heck out of other teenage parents back then! I now take my teens’ drama and rolling-out-of-their-head eyes and constant mom, I know! with a light(er) spirit than a couple of years back. I learnt how to shut it and say whatever works . Also learnt a lot of jokes to throw around in such a way that if there is a Spelling Bee contest for sarcasm, I am the goat.
I do not want you to send me five pictures with your kid. Just send one where I can praise the good job you‘ve done and move on to adult stuff like air fryers, detergent pods with the best scent, how come socks disappear while in the washing machine and vacation houses in Greece. Pop ten pictures that are the same and you lost me. Will I heart emoji them all? Of course I will because I am also that person that cannot (yet) put an end to the misery. Seinfeld said that he waited to become sixty to finally learn to say no. I am so becoming Seinfeld.
I only have a few friends with whom we can laugh our brains out to jokes that involve our own flesh and blood. I have won the golden buzz for having those people around me. When you’re able to laugh at yourself, at your manic family, at the expense of your kids or your partner, without anyone getting so easily offended, this is one way of winning at the game of life we’re all playing here.
We try to skip reunions where kids are involved. We ask if the hotel has several pools and playgrounds so we do not book it. We try not to go to places where there’s face panting because this means, yes, you guessed, kids. My patience around kids is this benjamin button: it gets smaller and smaller and will soon turn into a soy bean.
What a trauma you must have lived, you might say. Might be. Do you have time to talk about the last 10 years? Or 17? Come by, I’ll entertain the dialogue.
The thing is we are almost done. We’ve lived in the past years as much as possible for a human being to last for ten seasons of a sequel. Is it done? Surely not. Do I want more? Surely not. Will there be more? Of course it will. Will we still hold on to the attitude? We’ll live and see.
This article is a pamphlet (is it?) and should be treated as such (should it?). Please do send over kids pics, I will heart emoji them as mentioned. But try to read the room also. Never know what’s on the walls.