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Archives from 2002-2006

(I’m 37 now, holy shit.)

Once a week I take both kids to a Little Gym class, where they dutifully tumble around on gymnastics equipment (well, to be honest: Riley dutifully follows instructions and climbs on things when he’s told, while Dylan buzzes around the room like a rogue pinball, occasionally hurling himself into thin air from the tops of the uneven bars while the teachers’ backs are turned) and I sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs, all facing a giant window which I was initially convinced was one-way glass.

(It’s not, as I discovered the first day once Dylan suddenly popped up into view, his nose pressed snoutlike to the window as he waved gaily at me and I pretended not to know him because yeah right, like that’s MY kid running in demented little circles making farty motorboat sounds while everyone else is paying attention.)

The experience of sitting in this room has made me extra-cognizant of parental douchebaggery, as I think I’ve now reluctantly overheard every obnoxious discussion it’s possible to hear, often via someone’s extra-loud cellphone conversation which they conduct with one finger plugged dramatically into one ear as they shout over the poor gym teacher’s attempted presentation about what exactly it is our children are learning today.

Vaccinations and why everyone should delay them, foods no child should be allowed to eat (#1 on the list: sugar, NOT EVER!), the best private preschools for the under-3 crowd, the right entertainment to hire for birthday parties . . . I don’t know, I’m not saying these things aren’t worth talking about, but the fact that I hear so very much about these topics every time I sit in that room has totally started reminding me of those Windows 7 commercials:

I mean, really? You get like an hour to kick back and bullshit without a kid climbing halfway up your ass, and really?

You know who I want to sit with? Someone who will join me in (lovingly!) making fun of our kids. I want to elbow someone and point at Dylan and go, “What the hell does he have in his brain, exactly? Packing peanuts?” And they’ll laugh and go, “Wait, check out my kid! He’s totally about to fall off the balance beam. This is going to be hilarious.”

I’ve eliminated any possibility of this ever happening, though. After class, as the kids came stampeding out and the parents applauded, my adorable boys rushed into my arms and shouted “MOM! MOM! WE DID SO GOOD TODAY! CAN WE HAVE MCDONALDS?”

And as fifteen pairs of eyes turned to see how I’d turn them down, I said “What the hell, guys. Why not?”

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