I Don't Like Other People's Kids
When my girlfriend
calls to ask me to babysit
her kids, I always silently cringe. It's not that they're holy terrors. They're actually great, well-behaved kids. It's not that I'm busy or otherwise engaged. The truth is, I don't like other people's kids.
Before I became a mom, I wasn't a big fan of children. I found them loud, mostly smelly, often annoying, dirty little under-your-feet creatures. It wasn't that I could take them or leave them; I could leave them all—in a heartbeat.
Then I had my own kids and I thought for sure things would change. And they did. I love my own kids to bits. But I'm still not a big fan of other people's. While other people's kids puked, mine merely spit up. Other people's crapped, mine made little poopies. Their kids bawled, mine sounded like little lambs.
I worry sometimes that I'm missing that part of my heart that's supposed to melt when a kid says something cute or flashes a toothless grin. I mean, who doesn't like kids? Isn't there a law against that? I'm like the Grinch waiting for Cindy Lou Who to come fertilize my cold, hard heart. It just hasn't happened yet. And maybe it never will.
My friend's kids do come over and I'm perfectly nice to them. I provide all the basic necessities, take them to the park and even treat them to Happy Meals and extra TV time. But there will be no warm hugs or cuddles from this coldhearted mom; I just don't feel it.