I’ve hit the time in life when many of my friends are having children. Several of them already have kids, of varying sizes and ages. I don’t see these friends nearly as much as I used to.
“There are all sorts of things they have to buy — cribs and clothes and little itty-bitty straightjackets and such.”
It’s not because I’m allergic to children or anything — although I could be! — but rather that raising children is apparently a challenging and full-time job.
A what, now?
My parental friends try to put it into terms they think I can understand. They say:
‘Imagine hosting a big party, where you have to grill and entertain guests constantly, and no one leaves for eighteen years.‘
I’m not following. I could still drink and eat, and kick people the hell out when I get tired, right?
‘Not legally, no. How about this — having kids is like being at a bar where you never get drunk, but you have to keep buying rounds for the whole crowd anyway.‘
Can’t you walk down the block to the next bar, where the booze isn’t watered down?
‘Hrm. It’s like a strip club where the girls don’t get naked and the cover charge includes four years tuition at a private school.‘
I’m not following.
‘A football game where you pay for other people’s tickets but you have to stay in the parking lot.‘
‘A hundred thousand dollar bag of pork rinds you don’t get to eat for twenty years.‘
I don’t understand.
‘Like blogging, only with more projectile vomiting.‘
I understand completely. It’s all so simple when you put it that way, you poor, miserable bastards.
Seriously, I understand why the folks with kids spend more time at home. There are all sorts of things those kids need to learn about getting along in the world, and treating others with respect, and how to attack a zone defense. That takes time.
Also, I entirely understand if some of these guys are staying away to keep me from corrupting their young kids’ impressionable, squishy little minds. Nobody wants to hear:
‘Daddy, Uncle Charlie says we should go to the booby bar. What’s a ‘booby bar’? And did the devil really invent ‘pasties’?‘
I can see where that could be awkward. But I stand by my position on pasties. You have to draw the line somewhere.
More interesting to me are the friends who curtail their social calendar because they’re ‘trying‘ to have kids. Now I know this actually means that they’re preparing for children they might soon have. There are all sorts of things they have to buy — cribs and clothes and little itty-bitty straightjackets and such. And of course, they’re saving money by staying in, which they’ll be sorely needing for the next several decades. So I completely understand.
On the other hand, when one of those friends says that they can’t come out to play because they’re ‘trying to have kids’, I can’t shake the uneasy feeling that they’re staying home to conceive a child. Like, that night. Hardly a mental image I need when I’m out for nachos and a few beers on a Saturday evening.
Or frankly, ever. Much more of that, and my blogging will have its share of projectile vomiting, too. Yeeks.Permalink | 1 Comment