Hey girl. We need to talk.
I’m just not sure I how I feel about this whole play-date thing. I mean, I like you, sure, and hey, that kid of yours? Pretty cool, am I right?! I mean, Phaedra talks about her all the time at home, and has been bugging me for weeks to invite her over to play. And you! You’re so great! In fact, I’m pretty confident that you wouldn’t steal anything from my house if you came over. Also, that time you pretended not to notice how fucked-up I looked when I dropped Phaedra off at school wearing my pajamas and gold-sequined Uggs? Pretty solid of you.
What I’m trying to say is…it’s not you, it’s me. I want to get out there and start play-dating, but I just get all squirrelly and weird at the thought. Play dates are essentially a milder, less legally-binding version of a visit from Child Protective Services. I have to clean up and try to semi-disguise all the weird things in our house: the cereal cemented around the base of the entertainment center; the curtain with the big burn hole in it from the summer Rob decided to start killing flies using a lighter and an aerosol spray can a la Revenge of the Nerds; the copies of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia mixed in with Tangled and The Muppet Show next to Phaedra’s bedroom TV.
Plus, to be completely frank: I’m just not in the mood. All week long, I’m gone at work, or busy dropping kids off or picking kids up, then I spend the rest of my time at home either a) preparing kids for bed, or b) keeping kids in bed. When the weekend comes, I really just want one day where I can stay home, not get dressed, and do the housework that I didn’t do all week long. If I lose that one day, chances are good that my kids will end up wearing Halloween costumes to school and eating off of Frisbees for much of the week.
Plus, I just don’t know the mechanics of how this relationship is supposed to work. Are you supposed to stay the entire time? That means I have to basically hang out with you for, what…an hour? Two hours? What if you turn out to be a turd? You’re already in my house, and the kids are already playing, so I’m supposed to sit here and pretend to enjoy having a conversation with you about why we painted the living room orange, and be uncomfortably noncommittal when you start into politics or social policy or something we inevitably disagree about when I could be watching Judge Judy and folding clothes while Surrey takes a nap? Or what if you leave? I’m supposed to babysit your kid until you decide to show up again? And what if your kid sucks and I end up having to entertain some kid that no one else in the house wants to play with because she’s a total asshole?
You know what? I don’t think this is going to work out. Let’s just break this off right now and maybe we can get together in the future when we’re both in a difference place.
Like, say, high school.