Before I was a mother, I didn’t really care for other people’s children. Sure, I could appreciate a cute one here and there, but I was never particularly drawn to the little creatures. Puppies were where it was at. I figured that once I became a mother, I would magically turn into a person who enjoyed generations born three decades before myself. A person who wanted to chaperon field trips and aid the teacher and host an annual Halloween party. A person who didn’t dread crowded birthday parties and passing lemonade stands. But, it hasn’t quite happened that way.
These days, I can’t stand other children more than ever. I scowl at them at the doctor’s office. They aregermy and contagious and I want them far away from my darling offspring. At the park they’re always on the equipment that my children want, and they are so much more annoying than my precious three at restaurants. At least when Evan plays with the sugar packets, he does so artfully and he looks so much more adorable wearing his lunch than all the other kids.
My children look infinitely less trashy than others running around the back yard in their underwear. When they scream at passersby they are simply asserting their independence, and it’s endearing. Even their poop is a hundred times less gross than other childrens. How did I get so lucky?
Maybe when I’m a grandmother that universal love of children will finally kick in. Or, maybe I’ll just be that nasty old lady yelling at innocent children in the grocery store.
Yup, that’s entirely more likely.