I can imagine them plotting at recess.
Kid A: “Let’s bug our parents for a play date after school!”Kid B: “Yahhhhh! That’s a great idea! Let’s do it!”A: “We’ll scream about it until their ears bleed, until they have to give in or they will go bonkers!”B: “Right on, sister!”
Okay, maybe they aren’t plotting but the first words out of Nikki’s or her BFF’s mouths are never “Hi Mommy” or “I missed you Mommy!” (Wishful thinking, right?) — instead, they are always some variation of a high pitched, in unison, wail:
“Can we have a play date? Pleeeaassseeeee?”
At least they say please.
But those seven words fill me with dread. You see, I’m allergic to play dates, planned or unplanned. Seriously. Ask my doctor. I break out in hives at the very mention of hordes of wild things running through the very tiny house that Nikki and I share with Grandma. Did you know that two five year old girls can have the same destructive effect as a force 3 tornado? Did you? No? Well, they can.
‘They’re just kids!’ I can hear you muttering to yourself. ‘Lighten up!’
No. (See? I’ve been practising)
I have reached a point where I dread pick up at school. I cringe at the thought of another in unison wail-plea. I have started some plotting of my own: after school programming; shopping trips that need to be done at precisely 4 pm (after 20 minutes of playground fun. I’m not a monster, after all); sending Grandma, who has a much thicker skin and says NO with great gusto, to handle pick up (this is the chicken shit method, but it works).
Ah, the good old days last year when I froze my ass off on the playground with a couple of other mothers while Nikki played with her friends OUTSIDE and NOT IN MY HOUSE. I miss those days.
It’s 3:10 pm. Time to gird my ears and brace myself for the unison-wail. Wish me luck!