I like kids. I couldn’t eat a whole one – well, not in one sitting anyway. But on the whole they’re quite pleasant creatures.
What irks me is their owners. Some people call them parents, and apparently some of these parents can even have names. That’s fine, don’t expect me to remember them all, that’s simply impractical and slightly unfair. But I accept that kids have owners, and the owners feel some insane obligation to make outrageous demands.
Like play dates.
It is my firm belief that play dates were invented by the devil, just after flies, and just before bubble gum.
It goes like this. Would your child like a play date with my child? Yes, good, then you can pick up my child from school, take it to your house, where it can behave like a trained circus monster, then you can feed it – here’s a list of things it won’t eat – and a list of things that it WILL, which is shorter – and finally could you pop it back to me at such and such a time.
Nannys and childminders charge a fortune for that service, but child owners happily trade tit for tat trade offs like that all the time.
But that’s not the worst of it. Play dates are a doddle compare to the identity theft which is parenthood. Before : You’re Quentin. A 32 year old financially systems synergiser. You have a reasonable social life. Go to he bar, meet friends, have the occasional late night with missed last trains and shared cabs, and everyone knows your name.
Then you have kids.
Now you’re thingumy, you know, play dates dad. You do something, can’t remember what, but finish work at five and is dropping my kid off around six, after he’s refused to eat the lobster which was the ONLY thing he ate last week.
I love my kids, but only sometimes am I sad that they’re only on loan.
Blobsters Blog. (12)