If you follow my Twitter, you may know that I sometimes do insane things that involve filling the house with a multitude of small screaming children and their parents.
For all that I am not a people person, (And I’m not) I know that my kid might want to be. So, I started doing this for her sake, way back when she was teeny. I started hosting play-dates.
Yeah. I know. You have met me. You know that I don’t really belong around many young impressionable minds. (And I don’t) But, the kids have a blast, and us moms usually stand around in the kitchen and gossip about the moms who couldn’t make it. And, I have to admit, talking to other actual adults is kind of nice, especially when they actually understand the whole parenting thing. I mean, nothing scares away your single, childless friends like a good labor story or some poo talk. (No, I mean, KID poo talk, relax.)
I have to confess a few things though. The first thing is this:
I spend almost the entire time, during a play-date, pulling a Lewis Black in my head, that is: going Don’tsayfuckdon’tsayfuckdontsayfuckfuckfuck “Oh fuck! Shit, Did I just say fuck? Sorry!”
I can’t help it. I know I swear too much, and I know that oh my god, there’s children listening. But, sometimes, I just start talking and a fuck comes out. My own kid, well, she knows better. We told her flat out, ” Listen, kid, Mom and Moo say bad words. You, however can’t until you are sixteen so suck it up and deal with it.”
(To which she replied, ” Can I say bad words in my head?” Sure kid. You can say whatever you want in your head. Watch her sometime, after you piss her off. You can just tell she is swearing at you in her head.)
Anyway, so, we told her, we swear, you can’t. Deal. And she has. So, we both forget to censor ourselves. I mean, sure, we try, but, sometimes shit just comes out. When I drop something heavy on my foot, (which happens daily, I might add) I’m probably going to yell, “Motherfucker!” And when I’m telling a group of moms a story about what this bitch did to me in the grocery store the other day, I’m probably going to say, ” You’ll never guess what this bitch in the store did to me the other day.”
I do apologize, and try to make sure no kids are around, but sometimes, as I said, shit just comes out. Sorry. If your kid will be scarred for life after hearing a bad word, my house probably isn’t the place for you guys.
My second confession, is a bit weirder: I actually don’t mind the mess. And I don’t want you to help clean up. No really. You are doing it wrong.
You see, I have OCD. I know a lot of people say that. But I actually have it. No, I don’t have an extreme case, but it’s bad enough that if you put shit away in the wrong places: It. Will. Drive. Me. Nuts. Until. I. Fix. It. It just will. So don’t help. Thanks, I mean, please offer to help. But don’t help. Really.
So, if you can handle all that, come on over! Don’t you just want me to babysit now? I’ll be following your kid around with a dustbuster, saying “Fuckity fuck fuck!”