Age has a way of creeping up on you. One moment you are 20 and fearless and your body effortlessly performs amazing feats that you don’t think twice about asking it to do. Then you wake up a moment later and you’re 40 and your hair has grey in it and you reach for something on the top shelf of your kitchen cabinet and your back goes out. And I hate those people who say, “Age is nothing but a number…” they love to say it because their number is usually less than mine.
My aunt (who is actually my second or third cousin, but because of her age I call her aunt) had a birthday last week. I stopped counting when she turned 90, so impressed was I that anyone I knew had hit that landmark and was still not only mentally and physically active, but dating! I think she hit 95 this year. I tried to call her, but the line was repeatedly busy. I always seem to call in the morning, during the appointed time that she talks to her boyfriend every day. He’s in his 80s. Honestly, I really find something inspiring in the fact that they have a life in their later years…they see movies, go to luncheons and concerts, she even makes a regular appointment at the beauty salon. Not just a life, a good life, better than mine in some ways. It gives me hope that at some point my life will be more than playdates and carpools and birthday parties and fussing over what is or is not appropriate to wear to school. It’s not that I don’t adore my children and adore the ages they are at, but I sometimes miss my younger days when I had the freedom to do what I want, when I want. But my aunt has given me hope. It makes me think that one day I will return to seeing movies that aren’t rated G or PG, in first run, on screens in theaters, seated next to other adults who get to go out after dark and stay up late and not have to worry about the mounting babysitter bill or even the fact that they are just too damn tired to be out so late.
I try to imagine my life at 95 and it is tough for me to get a visual. My aunt is amazing, having retired about thirty years ago, she has crafted a life for herself that includes regular exercise, watching what she eats and working on all those projects in and out of the house that never seemed to get done with kids, job and spouse to tend to. I would love that. All me time, all the time. She’s involved with her church, civic and social groups and loves to support the up and coming youth not only financially through donations, but by just being there. My girls and I sometimes pass her house on our way to run errands and we like to do what we call drive-by huggings – where we just show up unannounced, ring the doorbell, give her a hug, then jump back in the car and drive off a few minutes later. I’m always surprised when we do that and find some young person there visiting my aunt. One time the driveway was full of college students who had stopped in to say hello. My aunt had helped out the mother of one of the girls by watching her afterschool and they girl had returned with her college friends to visit. People ranging in age from six year olds to forty years olds had all flocked to see this nonagenarian and say hello. It was a testament to how many different lives she had touched over the years.
I thought of my aunt the other day when my husband made some comment that almost got him the Al Green treatment (if you don’t know what that is, Google Al Green and grits and see what comes up). For dinner, I decided to make an elaborate taco bar. I cooked up two kinds of meat – chicken and beef - seasoned them to perfection, cut up onions, avocados, tomatoes, shredded cheese, and then fried several corn tortillas until they were crispy brown. I had margaritas chilling in the refrigerator. I placed the food in various serving dishes on the stove and announced that everyone should come and fix their plates. David looked at me and said, “What is this…I like being served.” I waited a moment, expecting him to break into a grin. When he didn’t, I realized he was serious. I angrily snapped back something very uncomeback worthy, like, “Yeah, me, to,” fixed my plate and deliberately left those margaritas in the fridge. He could get them himself if he wanted them, damnit. As I sat stewing and eating my muy delicious make your own tacos, I remember one of the many words of wisdom my aunt had given to me over the years. When I got married, she said, “Make sure your husband knows he’s not marrying to get an indentured servant.” I was surprised by her words because I would have expected an older woman, she was in her late eighties when I got married, to ascribe to the serve your man a plate and clean his boots mentality. But I was wrong. She continued, “If he wants a housekeeper, cook and servant, he can go out and hire one. He’s marrying you because he loves you, not because he wants someone to wait on him.” That’s not to say she didn’t have other words of wisdom that completely contradicted her tough stance. She also dropped these pearls of advice, suggesting that I have a potato heating in the oven when my husband got home from work because the potato would fill the house with a delicious smell and make him associate coming home with wonderful things. When my sister-in-law got married, my aunt advised her to always keep a small towel by the bed. Need I say more. I’m grateful I missed the sex advice talk. I’m not sure I could have taken it. You really don’t want to think that the seniors in your life ever engaged in sex, let alone have them give you advice about it. David and I had traveled together so much before we were married, I guess she figured I was a lost cause in terms of the towel advice.
So whenever I complain about feeling old, my little seven year old, Natalie, who I’ve tricked into believing that I’m decades younger than I am (although I think at this point she knows the truth and is humoring me), cuddles up next to me and says, “You’re not old, mama, you’re only 21.” Like I said, age, just a number…even if it’s the wrong one.
Showing posts with label playdates. Show all posts
Showing posts with label playdates. Show all posts
Friday, June 11, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Why I Hate Playdates
Hating playdates isn’t P.C. I know that. Yet I can’t manage to shake the dread I feel when my kids ask to have them. I know other parents who secretly feel the same way, but they hide their dislike for playdates better than I do. They mask their shame at being a parent who doesn’t want to support their children’s interpersonal development by not facilitating the playdate experience and thereby making their kid a social pariah before the age of ten. Don’t get me wrong – I actually like my daughters' friends very much. In fact I am constantly surprised and amazed by what a good group of kids they are – amusing and challenging in the best possible ways, with a healthy dose of snarkiness mixed with sarcasm – what is that, snarkcasm?- that I try to encourage in my own children. It’s not the kids that I hate, it’s the actual playdate ritual itself.
Playdates are time consuming to set them up, fill up afternoons of our always over scheduled days and force me to come home from work when I’m already exhausted and cranky and entertain another person’s child rather than get away with ignoring my own for a couple of hours. And as a working parent, I always feel like I never have enough time to reciprocate and have other people’s kids over as much as they put up with mine. And that showers me with guilt. Don’t want to be the mom they talk about on the school yard and accuse of dumping her kids on other people.
Then there is the stress of making sure it is not just a playdate, but a fun playdate. Because the last thing your kid wants is for word to get around that their house is a boring place to be or that their mom is too strict or doesn’t serve the right snacks. I already have enough of these issues – scheduling, reciprocity, presentations – to deal with at work. Do I have to face them on the home front as well?
Here’s the Wikipedia take on playdates that made me laugh. (Okay, I know, I’m embarrassed to admit getting info from there, but in this case it has a very succinct and insightful description of the phenomenon of playdates):
A playdate is an arranged appointment for children to get together for a few hours to play. Playdates have become the standard for children of many western cultures because the work schedules for busy parents, along with media warnings about leaving children unattended, prevent the kind of play that children of other generations participated in. The intention of a playdate is to give children time to interact freely in a less structured environment than other planned activities might provide. Playdates are a late 20th century innovation. Playdates are becoming part of the vernacular of popular culture and form a part of children’s "down time." Most parents prefer children to use these hours to form friendships by playing with other children either one-on-one or within small groups.
Damn those media warnings. Why can’t I just kick my children out onto the street to play with the neighborhood kids from dawn until dusk like our parents did? We were gone all day Saturdays, Sundays and after school with no adult supervision. Our parents had no idea where we were for hours at a time. We could have been plotting the downfall of western civilization and they would never have known. But the thing that struck me on the head like an unbelted car seat in a rear end collision was the statement, “Playdates are a late 20th century innovation.” Basically, we parents created this activity to add to our already over scheduled lives and it has now morphed in a childhood must do.
Like I said, the kids my girls hang out with are great. It’s the schlepping kids to and from playdates, feeling beholding when I can’t (because of work or sheer exhaustion) cheerily reciprocate with an afternoon of play with the ease (and great generosity) that most of the other mothers seem to do. And then there is that pressure. I once had a girl over for a playdate who asked if we had a cat because she mistook the dust bunnies on the floor for hair balls. And another who, after a snack of milk shakes, cheese sandwiches, cut fruit and gogurts complained, saying, “That’s all there is to eat?” I never seem to know what activities to engage them with or food to put in front of them that is going to satisfy or (God forbid) live up to the increasingly high expectations of the playdate experience.
And what if there is a mishap? Because I’m the type of person who always needs to worry about something – I sometimes think worry is the only thing holding me together – what if something bad happens while someone else’s child is on a playdate with you? I think for that reason I have all but eschewed the destination playdate out of fear of losing someone’s kid in the crowd at Camp Snoopy. What if, you prepare an elaborate snack of taquitos with fruit salsa which sends your playdate guest into convulsions because their mom forgot to tell you about their allergy to cilantro? Or exposing them to something inappropriate, which happened to our friend’s kid when they came home from a playdate and described to their parents how the host mom had naked pictures of herself in erotic poses proudly displayed on every wall in the house. Playdates are supposed to be fun and educational, but not like that.
Someone told me about a blunt playdate mommy who informed the mother of the visiting child that their kid played well and would be allowed to come back. It was as if my friend’s kid had passed a checklist of playdate guest challenges and won the prize of being able to visit again. I agree with blunt mommy’s sentiment, but I’d never be that direct. We’ve had kids come over who have torn antique dolls to shreds, “accidentally” slapped my daughter in the face and cruelly tried to scare my younger daughter so she’d leave the older kids alone to play. And when their mothers came to the door and asked how it went, I said what any playdatephobic mom would say, “Oh, everything was great!”
Playdates are time consuming to set them up, fill up afternoons of our always over scheduled days and force me to come home from work when I’m already exhausted and cranky and entertain another person’s child rather than get away with ignoring my own for a couple of hours. And as a working parent, I always feel like I never have enough time to reciprocate and have other people’s kids over as much as they put up with mine. And that showers me with guilt. Don’t want to be the mom they talk about on the school yard and accuse of dumping her kids on other people.
Then there is the stress of making sure it is not just a playdate, but a fun playdate. Because the last thing your kid wants is for word to get around that their house is a boring place to be or that their mom is too strict or doesn’t serve the right snacks. I already have enough of these issues – scheduling, reciprocity, presentations – to deal with at work. Do I have to face them on the home front as well?
Here’s the Wikipedia take on playdates that made me laugh. (Okay, I know, I’m embarrassed to admit getting info from there, but in this case it has a very succinct and insightful description of the phenomenon of playdates):
A playdate is an arranged appointment for children to get together for a few hours to play. Playdates have become the standard for children of many western cultures because the work schedules for busy parents, along with media warnings about leaving children unattended, prevent the kind of play that children of other generations participated in. The intention of a playdate is to give children time to interact freely in a less structured environment than other planned activities might provide. Playdates are a late 20th century innovation. Playdates are becoming part of the vernacular of popular culture and form a part of children’s "down time." Most parents prefer children to use these hours to form friendships by playing with other children either one-on-one or within small groups.
Damn those media warnings. Why can’t I just kick my children out onto the street to play with the neighborhood kids from dawn until dusk like our parents did? We were gone all day Saturdays, Sundays and after school with no adult supervision. Our parents had no idea where we were for hours at a time. We could have been plotting the downfall of western civilization and they would never have known. But the thing that struck me on the head like an unbelted car seat in a rear end collision was the statement, “Playdates are a late 20th century innovation.” Basically, we parents created this activity to add to our already over scheduled lives and it has now morphed in a childhood must do.
Like I said, the kids my girls hang out with are great. It’s the schlepping kids to and from playdates, feeling beholding when I can’t (because of work or sheer exhaustion) cheerily reciprocate with an afternoon of play with the ease (and great generosity) that most of the other mothers seem to do. And then there is that pressure. I once had a girl over for a playdate who asked if we had a cat because she mistook the dust bunnies on the floor for hair balls. And another who, after a snack of milk shakes, cheese sandwiches, cut fruit and gogurts complained, saying, “That’s all there is to eat?” I never seem to know what activities to engage them with or food to put in front of them that is going to satisfy or (God forbid) live up to the increasingly high expectations of the playdate experience.
And what if there is a mishap? Because I’m the type of person who always needs to worry about something – I sometimes think worry is the only thing holding me together – what if something bad happens while someone else’s child is on a playdate with you? I think for that reason I have all but eschewed the destination playdate out of fear of losing someone’s kid in the crowd at Camp Snoopy. What if, you prepare an elaborate snack of taquitos with fruit salsa which sends your playdate guest into convulsions because their mom forgot to tell you about their allergy to cilantro? Or exposing them to something inappropriate, which happened to our friend’s kid when they came home from a playdate and described to their parents how the host mom had naked pictures of herself in erotic poses proudly displayed on every wall in the house. Playdates are supposed to be fun and educational, but not like that.
Someone told me about a blunt playdate mommy who informed the mother of the visiting child that their kid played well and would be allowed to come back. It was as if my friend’s kid had passed a checklist of playdate guest challenges and won the prize of being able to visit again. I agree with blunt mommy’s sentiment, but I’d never be that direct. We’ve had kids come over who have torn antique dolls to shreds, “accidentally” slapped my daughter in the face and cruelly tried to scare my younger daughter so she’d leave the older kids alone to play. And when their mothers came to the door and asked how it went, I said what any playdatephobic mom would say, “Oh, everything was great!”
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