Play What?

Now that the snow is officially gone, mittens don't need to be worn to school and the bike tires have been pumped up, Zoe won't stop talking about summer: What are we going to do (have fun)? I can't wait (me either)! Can I go swimming (of course)? Will you buy popsicles (by the truckload)? Where is my pool (still at Target)? I can't wait (you already said that)! Can we go on picnics (as long as I can bring a couple beers)? Are we going on vacation (we haven't told her yet, but yes we're going on vacation)? Can I have a playdate (Ummm....WHAT? What the hell did you just say?!)?

I don't know where my daughter picked up such a horrible, wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap word, but it certainly wasn't from me. That word has never been uttered in our house, unless it's being used in a sentence like "No, you can't go over to Mary's house for a stupid playdate, because the word playdate makes mommy throw up in her mouth." Plus, conversing with Mary's mom about the playdate makes me want to chop my own head off.

As much as I hate the word playdate, I suppose I should be preparing myself for the fact that at some point this summer, Zoe will want to have a friend over. While the thought of hosting another six-year-old is not my idea of bliss, having to deal with the other six-year-old's mom is even worse. (Don't get me wrong, there are some moms that I love and these women can come over any day any time because we're already friends, and our friendship doesn't exist just because we happen to have kids the same age: it's because we understand, and like each other.) So, since I will probably have to be civil to a bunch of women that are complete strangers but don't want to sacrifice what's left of my sanity for my daughter's social life, I have created a contract that the other parent will be required to sign before any not-a-playdate is initiated.

STANDARD CONTRACT FOR A

NOT-A-PLAYDATE AT ZOE'S HOUSE

This Agreement is entered into between me (over-scheduled, hyper-critical, sometimes drunk) and you (kind of smothering, overly-chatty, boring) regarding the social interaction that will take place between my kid and your kid.

1. Scheduling: The timing of said interaction will be negotiated and agreed upon by both parties, with a maximum time limit of three hours. If your kid is a picky eater, or if you have a list of weird dietary restrictions, then the specified time frame will not, under any circumstances, overlap with any meals. Any request for an extension of time will be presented to me before your departure and I reserve the right to say "No way in hell. Be here at 4:00."
2. Services Included: This not-a-playdate is defined as your child and my child playing, laughing, running, sometimes fighting and maybe even finding something to do that your kid might enjoy. These activities are not required to be educational, might include some violence, will not involve craft supplies or kits, and will hopefully require minimal supervision from me. In fact, they might even watch a movie. Or three. Reasonable snacks will be provided if your child gets hungry.
3. Services Not Included: Excessive discipline beyond saying "Stop it," preparation of any food that requires turning on the oven/stove, feeling bad if the cheese crackers aren't organic or hesitating to tell you if your child breaks something. My child will not be required to put up with excessive amounts of whining or bossiness from your child just because she's "the guest." I am not always (or ever) going to ask if you'd like to stay for coffee and chit-chat about our husbands/you/ vaccinations/you/vacations/you.
4. Rights to Terminate: If, during the course of this not-a-playdate, your kid starts channeling satan, has eaten all the kettle chips and is on her fourth peanut butter sandwich, has peed on the floor or is just pissing me off in general, I have the right to call your cell phone, interrupt your pedicure and immediately put an end to my horrendous afternoon.
5. Scheduling of Future Not-a-Playdates: You can ask me, but when I say "Well, I don't think so, we're kind of busy that day," I really mean "No. No. And um, no."

Signed: Me___________ You___________ Date: _________

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."