An Open Letter To My “Kid-Free” Friends

Dearest Kid-Free Friend,

I’m sorry. We can’t be friends anymore. Not right now, anyway. I have to break up with you. Yes, I am talking to you, the one who went out to a bar until two o’clock last night, slept until ten-thirty, and is now sitting at a bistro with a tiny espresso while wearing something hip and stain-free. I’m the lady who can reach in her purse and not pull out a crayon or five. It’s not you…it’s me. Maybe it’s neither of us. It’s my kids. It’s just that…well, we are in different places right now.

I know the names of every Muppet on Sesame Street. You don’t understand why bringing my two children lollipops, when one is cherry flavored, and the other one is root beer, is likely to cause tantrums, especially when you give it to them right before bedtime and then I have to try to con them into saving it for tomorrow. You don’t get why I cringe when you come bearing a gift, a sand art kit, which you let my daughters open, unassisted,  right over my brand new carpet. I can tell you the many minuscule differences between Barbies, Bratz, and Moxie Girlz. You give me crazy looks when you bring over Magic Mike XXL on DVD and say, “Well, they can stay in the other room, right? Or put them to bed.” I understand… I was there once too.

Chances are you’ll call me at 8:00 p.m. and ask if I want to go out tonight for a late dinner and some drinks. You won’t understand why I say I can’t, because I have no sitter and my hair has a LEGO in it. It’s not that I don’t want to go, but while your day was filled with yoga and a leisurely trip to the farmer’s market, my schedule went something like this:

• Wake up to kid screaming. Check to see if the sun is up (it’s not).
• Get out of bed, feed the screaming kid and the sister she woke up with her noise, and then distract them with whatever is on TV that isn’t complete garbage.
• Run to the kitchen and make a cup of coffee. Take two scalding sips.
• Break up the fight over who gets to lie down on the pink pillow even though a second identical pillow is two feet away. Forget about that all-important cup of coffee.
• Dress both kids. Cut twenty oranges because it’s your turn to be snack mom at soccer. Try and find a second cleat. Search the entire house before finding it tucked under the rug in the bathroom (no time to ask why on earth that’s where they decided to leave it).
• Throw on any clothes that are not stained, super wrinkled or dirty, wrangle kids into their car seats, and listen to “Let it Go” on repeat for the ten-minute drive to the field. Find a half-eaten bag of Goldfish and down them when you realize you haven’t eaten anything yet.
• Take Child A to soccer. Watch game. Cheer.
• Don’t take your eyes off the game. Not even to sneeze. She will notice. Congratulate the child for winning, even though they did not keep score and try to usher her off the field. Think happy thoughts as she takes ten torturous minutes to buckle her seat belt.
• Change Child A and drive to Girl Scouts. Think of an excuse for not volunteering as a camping chaperone on the way over. Take Child B to karate, then speed back to pick up Child A. Go back across town for the third time in three hours to a birthday party. Lean on the steering wheel in the parking lot and write out a cute greeting on the card while you pray they’ll serve lunch to the kids.
• Go home, do laundry, pay bills, and bathe sweaty kids who’ve had way too much sugar at the party. Cook dinner and pretend to be a dastardly pirate queen simultaneously. Feed both kids dinner and listen to two children at once: One who is singing a song that may not actually be in English and another who is complaining that they don’t like this food even though it was what they asked for this morning.
• Throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, with Child A biting your inner thigh and crying about who knows what. As the dishwasher runs, sit down to maybe, possibly, try to get some work done (haha, like that will happen). Bring a laptop with you but leave room on your lap for both children to try to jam themselves onto the same spot on your knee.

That’s when the phone rings, and it’s you asking to go out. So, I’m sorry to decline the invite – again…. Maybe we can try to be normal humans in a few years (I’ll need that drink when they are teenagers and fighting over clothes and boys and bonding over how mean they think I am), but until then… you’re on your own. The only thing I can do tonight is sit on my couch with my remote and a drink and mentally prepare for tomorrow.

Signed,

That friend that used to have a bad mouth, an amazing purse collection, and an iPod that wasn’t full of princess theme songs and misses her “kid-free” friends (but wouldn’t give up the spaghetti in her hair and morning snuggles for anything).

*Note: While I am serious about not changing my messy, tiring, frazzled child-centered life for anything, I promise I’m not really ending any relationships with any happy-go-lucky friends with cars that don’t have petrified chicken nuggets buried in between the car seats in the back.  I love you all. I swear I do.