Today I’m Struggling With…Other People’s Kids

I don’t like kids. There. I said it. I have never liked kids. I don’t even recall liking kids when I was a kid. I’m the youngest in my family. I never babysat. Until I had I had a child, I was never around babies for any extended amount of time.

To be clear: I love my kids. They are the bee’s knees. The cat’s pajamas. My world. But in no way does that obligate me to like other people’s kids, or as like to call them: OPP (Other People’s Progeny).

Now that I’m a mom, I feel like I am expected to gush over everyone else’s kids, to find them endlessly charming simply because I have one (or two) of my own. And that’s just not the case. My coworkers have kids. They’re fine. My sister’s friends have kids. Cool. H has preschool friends. Neat. The case just remains, if I’m completely honest with myself, I don’t like kids.

A Lack of Imagination

It’s nothing personal. Most of the kids I have reason to interact with are perfectly nice, well-behaved, and get along well with H. If you’re reading this thinking, “OMG, Kat secretly hates my kid(s),” maybe. But probably not. No, this one is a “me” problem.

Most of the discomfort lies in the fact that I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them.  I hate – HATE – pretend play. I’m so bad at it. I have a complete and utter lack of imagination and it makes me feel like the lamest lame-o when playing with H.

I work really well with rules. I follow directions perfectly. I can do almost anything at the beginner/intermediate level when given proper instruction. But play time is a mystery to me. H wants to play trains, but they fly around instead of staying on the perfectly continuous track I just built. He wants to play Lite-Brite, but keeps putting yellow pegs where the pink ones go. He wants to play Play-Doh, but begs me to *gasp* mix the colors together!

But with my own kid, this is no big deal. I tell him honestly, “Mommy finds it hard to play pretend. I’m still working on it, but you’re doing great. Keep flying, Percy!” I let him be him, and then awkwardly chime in enough so that he feels like I’m involved: “Oh yeah that totally looks like a hot dog dragon! So silly!” Frankly, it’s emotionally exhausting for me, but I do it, because he’s my kid.

Playdate Panic

But now, my son is at that age, where he has, you know, friends. And when it comes to OPP, my lack of imagination joins forces with my social anxiety to create a playdate perfect storm of awkwardness. Because those friends have their own parents. And those parents want to chat.

I have what I like to call “First Day of School Syndrome.” Which basically means that I get really uncomfortable in situations where A) I don’t know people very well, and B) I’m supposed to talk about myself or participate in ice-breaker, chit-chat, get-to-know-you BS.

As a teacher, I have no problem speaking to groups or individuals I don’t know. I’m able to put on the title like a mask, and operate from the perspective of “expert,” which is comforting. As myself, I never know what to say, have a hard time judging what is “too real,” and generally assume everyone is judging me.

This is probably why mommy groups have never appealed to me. Too much pressure. Too much expectation. Too much judgment. Who knows who these women are going to be? Are they okay with cursing? Are they secretly critiquing the installation of my carseat? Are they just as tired of talking about their kids as I am?

I know that after I get to know people this anxiety will pass, or I will be forced into enough situations that eventually I won’t care anymore. But it doesn’t make it any more fun in the moment. And once we get past that initial discomfort, we still have to deal with the fact of the matter: OPP will probably ruin my kid.

Ruining My Kid

A few weeks ago, I was at home with H, looking through the Scholastic Book Sale catalog (a.k.a. my favorite time of year). On the cover of the catalog is the book Be A Star, Wonder Woman! by Michael Dahl and Omar Lozano. H looks at it and the following conversation occurs:

H: Awww, I want to be Wonder Woman, but I’m a boy and she’s a girl.

Me: You can be Wonder Woman if you want!

First of all, mad props to Primary for telling gender norms to fuck off. They were a favorite of mine simply for selling black baby clothes, but this put me over the edge. Second of all, he is three. Three. Years. Old. And it’s already begun. The boys vs. girls, pink vs. blue, pants vs. skirt bullshit. ALREADY.

This incident was the first of a few “I’m a boy, therefore” comments he would make over the next few weeks, and it’s no coincidence that these thoughts started cropping up just after he started in preschool. It has all seemed to confirm my worst fear: OPP ruining my perfect little baby.

Okay, okay. Most of that last statement was bullshit. I know he’s not perfect, nor would I want him to be. He’s not little, looking at least a year older than he actually is. And of course, he’s not a baby anymore. He’s not even a toddler, really. He’s a kid. And he’s a smart kid, so it bothers me when I hear him parroting statements that I consider ignorant and limiting. I honestly would be happier to hear him repeat a swear word than I would some sexist crap that Little Jimmy’s dad told him because his masculinity is too fucking fragile to abide his son wanting to wear a Moana shirt. But I digress.

Really, what bothers me is not the idea of my kid being “ruined,” but that he’d be ruined by someone other than me, or my husband. I know we are going to screw something up with H, maybe we already have. But if we screw up, we can fix it. If someone else screws up, I’m not as sure what to do.

When I was growing up, my penchant for policing other kids’ behavior led my parents to frequently tell me, “Worry about yourself, Katharine. It’s not your job; it’s their parents’ job.” That was a bitter pill to swallow as a kid/teen/young adult. Now, that thought is actually comforting. I only need to worry about H. I don’t need to teach other kids a lesson. I’m only responsible for him (and G, when she gets to this stage), and that is the challenge I took on when I decided to be a parent.

In the end, I don’t want to shelter him from other kids, even if those kids say or do things I would never allow. I know it’s good for him, and me, to be pushed out of his comfort zone and exposed to different ideas and ways of doing things. That’s why he goes to school in the first place, right? So for now, we are trying to make it a “teachable moment” for H, worrying only about him and hopefully giving him the tools to think for himself, to question everything (including us), and to speak up and dissent when necessary.

As for myself, well, I always try to get better at socializing, especially with other parents and kids. I do see a therapist for my social anxiety, and I would strongly encourage it if that’s also your struggle. After all, this is not a phase; it will not pass. It’s the beginning of the next stage of parenting, and ready or not, before I know it, my house will be filled with other people’s kids.