The Kids Are (Not) Alright

It’s not you, it’s me.

When it comes to child interaction, you don’t want me involved in the water balloon toss or wheelbarrow race. And you certainly don't want me loitering near petting zoos or schoolyards, mischievous grin intact as I encourage insubordinate behavior. You see, stirring the proverbial pot (or stuffing the occasional potato into the microwave) has always been my forté. And should this instigation score your kid high honors on Santa's Naughty List, so be it. Like the crazy uncle banned from family gatherings, I’m amused by the utter gullibility of children.

Before you paint me as some child-hating abscess, leading your offspring into kindergarten thuggery, consider that I adore contact with babies. Clad in silly one-piece attire, their precious innocence explodes into hearts, minds, and diapers. Other than wicked stepmothers or Joan Crawford, who hasn’t brightened to the charming hysterics of a newborn’s first peek-a-boo? They look like bald aliens and behave like primates, but after the post-umbilical hose-down, cuteness prevails.

Unfortunately, I enjoy the squeals of rugrats much better when they can’t speak; which is to say, unless some third world doctor offers to extract their larynx, I’d just as soon return the babblers to the Vlasic stork before they master the alphabet. Toddlers are boring, adolescents are pricks, and high schoolers are full-blown assholes. It’s tiresome enough conversing with an acne erupted, half-wit nose picker who’d rather sniff glue than learn algebra (especially if he's your own son, God have mercy). But networking with the mind of a three year old is an exercise in patience beyond anything asked of Job; akin to holding tête-à-têtes with drooling hobos who spew incoherent nonsense. In other words, feigning interest in choo-choo trains with humans who consistently vomit lunch and soil underwear out of convenience is exhausting, whether in homeless shelters, trailer parks, or pre-schools. Yet many of my peers communicate amazingly well with the younger set, killing brain cells with puerile gibberish, whereby dinners in the Easy-Bake oven start to look appealing as their grasp on reality loosens.

Over the course of time, dear reader, the mettle of my penis will be tested. Virile stallion or empty vessel, the answer remains unknown. Should the former ring true, I too will assume cartoonish voices, appease imaginary friends, cleanse skinned knees, throw baseballs, and attach training wheels. For a short while, I will pretend to know everything, and cherish my standing as guidepost and protector. I will wipe tears and rub noses. Encourage, praise, and punish; support, console, and eventually release. From tricycles and ice cream cones to recitals and rebellion, however messy or disappointing, whatever the outcome despite the expectation, unconditional love will prevail. With boundless depth. Empty diaper or full load.

Either that, or I’ll just institutionalize the little bastards after they hit kindergarten, and grovel for their sympathies once I contract Alzheimer’s. Greater dysfunctions have been overcome when an inheritance check lies on the line.

Boredom Rides Shotgun In The Carpool Lane

The below article was commissioned by a suburban living publication, wherein I was tasked with writing about kids and carpools. It was also swiftly rejected for offensive content. Now I'm left holding a piece that likens me to a deranged pedophile. Win some, lose some, I guess.

Would you trust me with your kids?

I’m hardly irresponsible. In another life I owned a lucrative seat at a once exalted investment bank; secured by merit, mind you, not because I traded my dignity for intercourse with a randy executive. Truth be told, avoiding the minefield of infidelity was a personal victory, both at the workplace and on the sidewalks of Stepford when mingling with domestics. And domestic I’ve become, another casualty of the economic fallout which relegated our nation’s leaders to money minting desperados. With financial security reduced to indulgence, my new status on the bread line affords ample moments for introspection, especially while awakening to the dreaded Kathie Lee Gifford hour of the Today show and wishing for a shotgun (for the television, not my temple). Numerous weeks have been squandered observing the stay at home moms of the village: the stroller pushers, the play-date negotiators, the resentful career flusher-cum-homemaker, and the lipstick temptress with her seductive saunter. In the span of three months, I’ve been degraded to a cut-rate voyeur of Daytime In Suburbia, weaning off that final swell of testosterone amongst the afternoon company of mommies, geriatrics, war veterans, and Ellen.

And you know what? I want a piece of this, permanently. There’s an inexplicable joy to seeing the midday sun lighten the facades of Main Street; something very “Leave It To Beaver” in the camaraderie of park bench lollygagging and conversations about the weather in meat markets and bakeries. I want a slice of that hot apple pie, that Mayberry ideal fresh out of the oven. Better yet, I want in on your kid’s car pool.

That said, come April 15th I won’t claim any dependent tax deductions. Not yet anyway, and not because my penis is broken. Hell, I can hardly stand the rugrats sometimes, forcing me onto bad knees to hear their incessant incoherent nonsense, fingerprinting my furniture with various bodily fluids, and erupting into fist-pounding tantrums over lost toys or reneged dessert privileges. And once we’ve mastered diapers and sharing, it’s time to pray your adolescent prodigy doesn’t crash the family car after funneling King Cobra behind the Sunoco mart (you know, the one that sells to underage kids) or take to smoking with last year’s Camaro driving dropout. Let’s not even get started on acne or vocational aspirations. Yet still, I think I can handle the car pool.

Exploring the aisles of costume wholesalers, I’d expect to unearth a Mickey Mouse mascot head on the cheap. What kid wouldn’t want to be escorted to school by the world’s friendliest rodent: giant white gloves clutching the steering wheel, huge head bobbing through an open moon roof, agape neighbor watching me suit up while pondering the exact moment when my train flipped the rails. Who doesn’t love Mickey Mouse? Think back to that summer he tousled your hair, then hammed it up in the family photo gently ribbing dad.

But let’s quash all the rumors proactively, shall we? Those whispers exchanged at the PTA meeting, the muttered indictments at brunch questioning my motives for Carpooler of The Year. I’m not an idiot, I’m simply unemployed, with heaps of time to anticipate your demeaning accusations. Nipping them all in the bud: I did not quit my job following a superb mental breakdown, I am not a registered sex offender, I will break your kid’s teeth if he wets his pants on my seat, Twinkies are indeed brain food and belong in the lunch bag, and this mouse costume is not used in conjunction with a role in a pornographic theater ensemble. Finally, if you note an ever changing lineup of children in this automobile, some not even enrolled in the school district, perhaps you should warn them to stop treating my car like a gypsy cab. I’m just a chauffeur. I don’t take attendance.

Erroneous gossip aside, ladies, you want me in that carpool. When you’re dawdling at leisurely lunches with the alcoholic socialite contingent, or philandering with a FedEx hulk at the hourly motor lodge, you need me in that carpool. And I couldn’t be happier to offer my services, gratis. Not only does this coupe with rear bucket seats beat the stigma of the yellow bus, but it fits six (even with the colossal mouse head) assuming we perch two urchins atop the center console. In fact, I’m thinking of delaying the job search a few months. My $364.50 weekly take from the labor department is enough to keep the electric humming in this modest abode, and besides, I enjoy discussing weather at the meat market. Have another appletini, or sign up for that second pilates class. I’ve got it from here. Come April, I’ll sprout pendulous breasts and trade Martha Stewart recipes with the rest of your jaded friends. And we’ll all find a nice young delivery boy to ravage.

That is, if you trust me.