But every now and then, a true friendship will shine like a jewel in a goat’s ass, and you realize that this playground mom is going to be a Forever Friend. You’ll probably even take couple’s vacations together, your daughter might marry her son, oh! The possibilities are endless.
And then she says it one day as you watch the future bridal couple play with the big yellow tic-tac-toe game painted on the side of the twisty slide: “Hey, you know I think Rush Limbaugh has some great ideas!”
And we’re done here. Juicy Juice is packed up, pretzels are resealed in their snack-size ziplock bags, and we really have to wash our hair. You never liked her that much anyway. Oh, and the marriage is off!
It’s so hard to find the right mom friend from a pool of women who simply have kids the exact same age. Thank the sweet Lord above, I was lucky enough to find several, and fourteen years later, we still get together at least once a month for dinner, drinks, and catch-up.
But there were so many more where the convo was forced, brittle even, as we discovered that, although our kids were crazy about one another, we just didn’t click.
It took me quite a while to realize that I didn’t have to be BFFs with every other mom. There was no reason to assume that just because we’d given birth within eight months of one another that we had anything else in common.
Be prepared to attend a lot of birthday parties where your kids have a blast playing together while you watch with a big fake smile on your face. The important thing to remember during these forced social situations is that it’s not about the parents; it’s about the kids. Still, it would be ever so much more convenient if you wouldn’t be such an insufferable bitch most of the time.
Question: You know what I hate? When another mom says, “Oh, call me for a playdate with little Madeleine!” That puts the onus on me to call her. That also tells me she doesn’t really want a playdate but just wants to look like she does, am I right?
Sadly, yes. No one should ever say “call me” about anything, because it’s automatically transferring the obligation to you, and that’s bad manners. The truth is, if she really wanted your kids to play together, she’d say: “Bring Tallulah over around four on Wednesday if that’s convenient. If not, what would be a good time?”
That’s a sincere invitation extended sincerely, complete with specifics and, yet, an allowance for the fact that it might not be a convenient time. Nicely done.
Why is it just so hard for moms to make a plan sometimes? I’d rather stay home with the kid watching Mexican soaps than deal with these indecisive weirdos. They may have been corporate bigwigs in their other lives, but now their brains are mush. To wit:
MOM A:
Oh, the kids should get together soon. What are y’all doing Tuesday afternoon? We’re going to go to Story Time at the library; want to join us?
MOM B:
Sounds great! We’ll meet you there!
MOM A:
Or we could meet for lunch a little earlier. How about that new Indian restaurant? They have a buffet, and the kids even like it.
MOM B:
Oh, I can’t. We have an appointment to get her baby sister’s ears pierced at Merle Norman that day at noon.
MOM A:
(silence)
MOM B:
You don’t approve, right? You think she’s too young, right?
MOM A:
Nonsense! I can hardly see the amniotic sac residue on her skin anymore. Whatever. Just the library, then.
MOM B:
Well, okay. Listen. I have to drop off some overdue books. Can you give me a few extra minutes to run home and pick ’em up?
MOM A:
Of course. Hey! How about I drive you to your house so you can get the books, and then we’ll ride together.
MOM B:
But will my car seats fit in your car?
MOM A:
Hmmm. I’ll call my mom and see if I can borrow her van. Gimme a minute.… Okay, she says that’s fine but only if we bring her back something from McDonald’s.
MOM B:
Do we have time?
MOM A:
Sure. Just pick up a salad from the one at the food court when you’re at the mall and bring it to my mom’s house.
MOM B:
Oh, no! What about nap time? We forgot about nap time!
MOM A:
Right you are! Okay, get the salad at the mall after you get the baby’s ears pierced—don’t forget the spicy Asian dressing, ’cause she loves that—drive over to my mom’s house, switch your car seats into her van, and the kids can sleep on the way to your house to pick up the overdue books, and then we’ll go to the library.
Exhausted yet?
Moms muddy the water a lot by trying to think of everything and accommodate everyone. Nobody wins. Keep it simple: “We’re going to the library for Story Time after lunch and nap time. Join us if you can!”
Done. Ahhhhh.
Question: I’m confused about how to approach a mom friend who allows her children to call me by my first name only. I have taught my kids to always call adults “Mr.” or “Ms.” (last name). What’s your best advice on handling this?
Well, doody. And here I was all set to give you my worst advice. Okay, my best advice isn’t the easiest thing, unfortunately. The easiest thing is to make an inflexible decree and stick to it. For example, as a daughter of the South, I was taught to call people “Mr.” or “Ms.” (first name), which is just a little more personal and friendly but probably a Southern thing. Neither answer is right. You should teach your children to address adults exactly the way that adult in particular wants to be addressed. For example, if the school bus driver likes to be called “Ms. Linda,” well, that’s what your kids should call her. Adults usually make this clear by introducing themselves to a kid by saying, “I’m Mr. Kevin,” or “I’m Mr. Timkin,” or if they’re a little odd, “I’m Mr. Kevin Timkin, but you can call me ‘Dude’.”
That said, I sometimes hate what adults ask kids to call them. My friend’s kids attend a private school where all the students from kindergarten to eighth grade are told to address their teachers by their first names. I think this sounds ridiculous and fairly disrespectful, but I can’t say anything, mostly because the huge stick wedged up my ass has now found its way all the way up to my vocal cords.
I can’t help it; it’s weird hearing a preteen talk to her teacher like he’s her friend who watches iCarly with her after school instead of a guy with a Ph.D. in Global Studies from Penn.
Question: I’m fighting with a mom, but our daughters are besties. This makes the drop-offs for playdates very awk. What to do?
Who are you? One of those skanky “Teen Moms” from MTV? For starters, talk like a grown-up. “Besties”? “Awk”? What the hell? Look, the kids didn’t get the memo that just because you’ve had a tiff with this mom, it should destroy their friendship. To put it in terms you can understand: Chillax, h8er. This will totes pass. Obvi.
Question: I have a couple of mom friends who are always bragging about their kids’ accomplishments. My daughter makes straight A’s and has won a decent number of awards in school and for extracurriculars, but it’s not something I talk about, because I know how much I hate it when others brag. On the other hand, I think they think my kid is an underachiever since I never join in the brag-fest, which makes me feel almost disloyal to my kid. What to do?
I know exactly how you feel. While a normal amount of catching up on the kids is great when couples get together, some parents don’t know when it ceases to be interesting news and disintegrates into unpleasant bragging and one-upmanship. Susie won the Science Olympiad. Susie got first chair in the all-state symphony. Susie’s senior project is to build an affordable assisted-living facility for blind children. Christ, I don’t even know her and I’m already sick of this kid.
So you end up swirling your chard a bit too wildly in its glass, dying to say: “Oh, shut up, you braggy cow! Your kid is about as special as mildew; move on!”
The only thing you can do is change the subject. This isn’t disloyal; it’s self-preservation. Just as the offending parent is revving up to discuss Susie’s athletic prowess (shot put record for the school—seriously?), throw something completely random out there. Say: “You know I read somewhere that people who brag about their kids all the time have very unsatisfying sex lives. Is that true?”
I’m kidding, of course. Although it would definitely be the talk of the Fit ’n’ Forty Zumba class at the Y the next day and, therefore, totally worth it.
When tempted to brag about your kid, remember that Karma ain’t just a dive bar on the Jersey Shore. Play nice. And keep your mouth shut. At least until the inauguration/Nobel acceptance ceremony/space flight. Then, yeah, you can do the superior dance. But only for a minute.
You don’t want to sound like Amy Chua, the now-famous “Tiger Mom.” Ever since I read about Chua, I’ve pictured her oldest daughter scratching rebellious little marks into her bedpost, counting down the days until she can leave for college. You have to feel like a prisoner when your mama won’t even let you take a pee break from five hours of violin practice. In my mommy-fantasy world, I’d love to run into Chua’s daughter one day, hanging out with the scruffy guy wearing pajama pants at the Redbox kiosk. I’d laugh my ass off.
Question: My daughter is invited to a sleepover where a PG-13 movie will be shown. My friend who is hosting the sleepover doesn’t seem to think this is a problem, even though the kids are all just eight years old.
Ah, that feels so much better. The metaphorical stick up my ass (see above, if you’re so rude as to read out of order) has been transported to you, rather like some sort of Harry Potter divination. I think a few of those were PG-13, too, and nobody much cared if you were eight as long as it was the boy-wizard movie. What’s a little magical violence among friends? I’ve noticed that PG-13 movies can be wildly different. Sometimes it’s as if the entire MPAA ratings team hasn’t even watched the movie but just picks a rating, dartboard style, and immediately breaks for a long lunch of tequila shots. Find out what the movie is, watch it in advance, and make a decision based on your idea of what’s right for your kid. Kidding! That’s a whole lot of work. Just tell this lazy heifer that the kids are too young for that movie ’cause it’s full of boobs and weed. That should do it.
Question: How do you handle it when a mom stays for a playdate? Our kids are seven years old, perfectly capable of playing together without us hovering. She seems to think I’m her playdate, but I have things to do. And, frankly, I don’t like her that much. Why can’t she just do a “dump ’n’ run”?
It doesn’t matter if you like her or not. You are using her kid to babysit your kid, and that’s the way it should be. As a parent of an only child, I’ll pimp my kid out all the time to play with someone else, just so I can have a moment to myself to work. Like right now. This woman is probably starved for adult conversation and is using her kid’s visit as an excuse to hang out. While I understand that, I have little sympathy for such inconsideration. At the very, very least, she should ask if you have plans or if she can hang out. You are going to have to say something like: “I’ve got a ton of work to do, and so my plan is to ignore the kids until they scream or set something on fire.” No? Okay. Greet them at the door, pull the kid in, and without letting her step inside, say, “You can pick up Jamie Sue at three o’clock. See you then!” Smile warmly and shut the door. If she protests (this is why you really have to shut the door), say in a cheerful tone: “I am so sorry, but I don’t have time for a visit right now. We’ll see you at three.”
Question: A couple of moms in our play group have said they have no intention of immunizing their children, because they believe this can lead to all sorts of problems. What do you think?
I think your play group needs to not tell these moms where y’all are meeting next time. If they get pissy about it, just say that you’ve renamed your little group from Mothers’ Morning Out to something more catchy, something like the Our Kids Don’t Need Your Nineteenth-Century Deadly Diseases group.
If they act offended, tell them that while you respect their decision to subject their children to whooping cough, measles, and other long-dormant delights, you prefer to live in a safer, saner world where these diseases have very nearly been eradicated. Fuckin’ weirdos.
chapter 12
Teen to Mom: You’re Not the Boss of Me (Now Buy Me Something)
If you have a teenager living in your house, you may be vexed on a daily basis by what we in the South call “acting ugly.” I’m not speaking of the Princess, of course, but your teenagers, who appear to be either sulky or high much of the time.
Okay, okay, maybe the Princess, at fifteen, isn’t perfect, but I know how to handle it when she’s not because I have channeled the ancient wisdom of my foremothers faced with the problem of a mouthy teen. If you take “our” advice, you, too, will have a much easier time when your teen is less than mannersome to you.
The time-honored secret? Embarrass the living shit out of your teen, and they will never, ever repeat the offending behavior.
A real-life example: The Princess was in a bad mood the other day as I drove her to theater dance class across town. She was uncharacteristically cranky (hormones, biology-test woes, they ran out of chicken tenders at lunch…) and was being quite rude to her mom-slash-chauffeur-slash-payer of her smartphone bill every month despite the fact that I only have a “stupid” phone my own self. Oh, how I give and give and give. But that’s a story for another day. At this moment, the Princess was being quite testy and so I simply …
Rolled the windows down in my car, cranked up Kanye and Jay-Z’s “Ni**as in Paris” and not only sang along at the top of my lungs but also began to chop the air with my arms in a most unbecoming middle-age white-lady dance move. I would not stop despite the Princess’s increasingly hysterical pleas. Stopped for a red light at a very busy intersection, I “raised the roof” with my palms up, sending her sinking deep into the floorboard for fear of being seen.
By the time it got to the part where Kanye is bragging about his ability to acquire “bitches” at will, she was begging me to stop. She would behave. She would clean her room, even!
When you’re talking teens, etiquette rules have to be a bit flexible. While I would normally find it unseemly to gleefully sing along to some really horribly misogynistic lyrics, the end justified the means. And to anyone unfortunate enough to have traveled on that stretch of roadway on that particular afternoon, I humbly apologize for my bad self.
Question: How can I convince my teenage son that manners matter? Whenever I mention cotillion classes, his eyes glaze over!
I believe we established that is because he is high. Okay, that’s probably not true, but I think it’s important for you to put yourself in your teen’s place. Cotillion? Really? Today’s teen doesn’t want to be forced into an ill-fitting suit to dance with the girl in freshman class that he has honestly despised since kindergarten. Get creative with your approach. Tell him that if he continues to text at the dinner table, leave his sweaty soccer socks on the couch, and so on, there will be consequences. He will never listen until you take away his phone. Start there.
Question: I can’t get my teenagers to write thank-you notes to their grandparents for birthday gifts. When they were little, I forced them to do it, but now that they’re older, they never listen.
I can remember my grandmother sitting me and my sister down at her kitchen table and not letting us move from our chairs until we had dutifully written thank-you notes for birthday or Christmas gifts sent by her sisters. Even if Aunt Francis sent one dollar (which, allowing for inflation over the years—nah, who am I kidding—a dollar was still pretty much a crappy birthday gift even back in the day), we had to write heartfelt and flowery letters of thanks that were vastly (in my opinion) out of line with the gift itself. To wit …
What a delightful dilemma confronts me! How to spend this one dollar you have sent f
or my birthday? Will it be for a few Log Cabin or Chick-O-Stick candies? Or, perhaps the whimsical cellophane “fortune-teller fish” I’ve had my eye on each day I visit the Ben Franklin store after school with my best friend, Barbara Jean? Whatever I choose, please know that the dollar you sent me will afford endless hours of delight. I really can’t say enough about your kind remembrance of my 10th year on Planet Earth.…
Yes, I actually wrote those words back in 19—— (sound of sputtering cough and whatnot). The point is, I understand how important it is to thank relatives, in particular. You won’t look like an ungrateful little shit, and more important, you want to keep the gravy train rolling. My lengthy, butt-kissing thank-you notes resulted in gifts from these sweet old ladies for many, many years, and the amounts increased dramatically over time. Yes, it is true that one aunt accidentally gave me days-of-the-week crotchless panties for my high school graduation (I am not making that up), but other than that, I have found relatives giving gifts to be a wonderful thing.
Explain that the gifts will dry up soon because the grandparents have told you they’re tired of your rude behavior. I don’t care that you’re lying about it; it could happen, and in the immortal words of George Costanza, “It’s not a lie if you believe it’s true.”
Question: You mentioned texting at the dinner table. It’s a huge problem for me. My teen insists on keeping her phone in her lap while we eat because, she says, “I could miss an important text.” Despite my pleas, she always seems to sneak it into the kitchen. How can I convince her that it’s incredibly rude to text at the table?
Oh, she knows it’s rude; she just doesn’t care. We have had the same problem with the Princess, who behaves as though every text is to confirm that a liver has just been made available and she must immediately depart to meet the transplant team. In reality, there is no such medical emergency (thank heavens!), only fluff about who’s wearing what where and the like. It is maddening.
Rude Bitches Make Me Tired: Slightly Profane and Entirely Logical Answers to Modern Etiquette Dilemmas Page 7
