Look, there’s no polite way to put this: Dear people with kids, look after your own damn children!
There, I said it.
This fury has been quietly raging in me for a couple of years now. It started when a few of my girlfriends started coupling off.
Sure, I’ve managed to come to peace with the fact that once my friends find their special person, I’m probably not going to see them for a couple of months. At least until they’ve come out of that honeymoon period.
I’ve never complained, because I’ve secretly hoped they would understand when I too, went through that phase. It’s exciting, and lusty and totally worth dumping your friends for a few months of lovey dovey ridiculousness.
But then something happens once they start having kids. We singletons become less friends, and more servants to you and your children. Think I’m being extreme? I’m really not!
Take this for example, last weekend I’m sitting at the pub with my fellow single, child-free girlfriends enjoying a cheeky bottle of sparkles when one of my friends runs in, late from visiting her coupled up friends with kids. She is in a mood.
As we hastily pour her a big glass of something containing alcohol, she sighs and explains that these friends are “seriously taking the p—ss!” We lean in as she explains that she was given a gap of two hours on a Sunday afternoon to come visit them, as the kids had no sports games to go to, no other child’s parties, and they would be home.
Hurrah! She drops everything and scoots over there, as she hasn’t seen them in yonks and this friendship is important to her. She’s there for no longer then 10 minutes before she’s hit in the head by a flying football.
Then comes the favor: Turns out they are moving house the following weekend and would like her to help them pack and move boxes, then entertain the kids while the movers do their thing.
Now for reference, this couple are doing quite well for themselves. They have the money to pay for a babysitter, and those fancy movers who pack everything up pre-move.
But no, instead they assumed their very single friend would have nothing better to do with her weekend then pack up someone else’s house and entertain someone else’s kids.
This friend works ridiculously hard during the week and having chosen not to have kids of her own, means that her weekends are a special time for her to unwind and recoup for the following busy week.
Now don’t get me wrong, I get the whole, “It takes a village to raise a child” thing, but when did we become free babysitters?
I’ve noticed it a lot with my own friends and family who have kids.
I’ll arrive at a dinner party, super excited to catch up with them, only to be greeted at the door with a, “Oh look kids, Jana’s come to play!” before I’m rushed to rumpus room to play boring games with the kids while Mum and Dad go and chill with a wine.
Can I object? Nope, because then I’m a party pooper. But do I want to guess what little Johnny has in his mouth for the millionth time … nope. That is literal torture to me.
Yes, I am aware that makes me selfish, but I’ve made the life choice not to have them, so I would prefer not to be tricked into it, thank you very much.
So where do you draw the line? If you say: “I’d love to catch up with you but not your kids,” you’re a bad friend, but the alternative sees you giving up your weekends to play Superman in the backyard with someone else’s child. No, thank you.
Thankfully, I’ve got a brilliant lifelong friend who knows me well enough to know our friendship comes with a no-kids boundary. Instead, she makes sure her husband is on dad duty while we go and enjoy a glorious long lunch. We both get something out of it.
We can enjoy a really good conversation without the constant interruption of children, and she gets to leave the house for some proper adult time. Honestly, I can’t recommend it enough.
So, while I’m super chuffed for all you clucky folk who have taken the very adult step of having children, I would ask that you remember that we childless folk prefer to spend our weekends in the company of adults, and less flying balls, snot and tantrums … well, only my own.