Please Don't Say Play Date

I love Friday mornings because it means I have survived another week of school activities, homework, sports, not burning my house down, and not being sued. When I wake up, it's as if I can already feel the martini partying it up in my bloodstream, even though the first sip is still a couple hours away. Although the weekends always include a few kid related obligations, there's usually time for something involving the phrase "on the rocks" and hopefully R rated. One thing they don't include, however, are play dates.

If you say the word play date around me, be ready to get slapped in the face. I can tolerate being called a lot of things and am actually a big fan of using obscenities in a creative way, but hearing the word play date makes me nauseous. My mouth gets that funky watery feeling and my stomach starts to churn just typing the word, so I think I'll just call it a "PD."

When the kids were little, a PD meant that another mom would bring her boogery-nosed, uncoordinated, screaming child to my house, plop the kid down on the floor, and proceed to chatter non-stop about the latest potty training techniques, their upcoming kidless vacation to Europe, how much she paid for her Kate Spade diaper bag, and where Friday's date night dinner reservation should be made, because "you can only eat at Manny's so many times before it gets boring." Other times, there were moms that hovered over the kids like a hummingbird, observing their every move, wondering why their little pumpkin wasn't stacking a tower of 4 blocks, naming their colors, or writing a sonata. I do have a few friends that happily talk about movies that aren't animated while we sit with our feet up, sucking down bloody mary's, watching the kids maul each other and fight over toys. They never, ever use the word PD, and I bake cookies for these friends.

Now that my kids are older, their friends are older too, and believe it or not I like some of them even less than I liked their moms. The teenagers smell funny and brag, the 6th graders don't have a sense of humor, and the 5 year olds whine. One thing they all have in common is that apparently they've all been on a two day hunger strike before they get to my house, since the first thing they look for is a snack. And a juice box. Or a pot roast and a 6-pk. of Coke. A girlfriend of mine has convinced her daughter that a certain friend should be avoided because her friend's favorite phrase is "So, do you think your mom would let us have a snack?" She asks this question as soon as she's in the door, and she'll ask it at least 6 more times within the next 45 minutes. Since my girlfriend doesn't have a Costco membership, the PD's are limited to the muncher's house.

Even if I did like all of their friends, weekend PD's at our house are strongly discouraged. The kids spend the entire week at school, dealing with classrooms full of cliques, drama, and germs. Weekends are about catching up with the family that you haven't seen much of during the week, and giving me a break from all the driving. There's also the fact that I don't need a bunch of kids going home and telling their parents about how "Mrs. Adkins sure is thirsty, and she kind of slurs when she asks us if we want a snack."