Playdate Expectations
They're not what they used to be
As the school year continues, your child is going to make friends. THAT’S GREAT! But also time consuming, expensive, and often mortifying. Why? Because young friendships beget playdates— a term that strikes fear and dread in even the most snack-savvy parent.
Playdates are:
necessary
often planned without your consent
sometimes not reciprocated or evenly distributed between households
very different from playdates of our youth
We did not have “playdates” when I was a kid. We “went to a friend’s house.” Our parents sent us outside to ride bikes, kick rocks, touch grass, maybe play kickball if someone’s yard was big enough and the ball didn’t go over the fence. Many kickball games came to a screeching halt and balls lost forever because not one of us was brave enough to knock on a neighbor’s door and risk asking an adult to get our ball back.
Playdates evolve as kids get older. In the newborn to early-toddler era, the other child’s parent is usually included in the date so plan wisely. If a parent drops off their newborn to play with your newborn that is not a playdate. That is babysitting and you are entitled to $25/hour1. As kids get older, playdates are a drop-off situation and it can be the greatest thing in the world. My son is an only child so having a buddy (or six) at our house means he’s occupied which means I can be occupied by things I put off in favor of looking at his latest Minecraft house or making his fourth cup of ramen. If I’m dropping him at someone else’s house there’s a 99% chance I’m peeling out of the driveway and heading straight to TJ Maxx for the best three hours of my life.
Playdates are a necessary for survival, but they don’t come without a literal, physical, and psychic cost. Here’s what to expect when you’re expecting someone else’s kid.
They Call You By Your Name: The most formal name I’ve ever been called by a child is “Quinn’s Mom.” I never fancied myself a Mrs. Mazzanoble type, but damn was it jarring first time a toddler said, “Hey Shelly, cut my grapes?” You just name check me, little Bellamy? I cannot imagine Child Me ringing my friend’s doorbell and being all, “Hey, Sharon! Jenny and I have some Fraggle Rock to catch up on. Got any Ring Dings?” It feels weird calling my mother-in-law by her first name and yet totally normal for tween boys to casually shout out my god-given and make demands for Domino’s pizza and an iPad charger.
They Will Trash Your Home: You know the pre-flip “before house” with the broken windows, pile of garbage in the living room, and weird stains on the ceiling on those home remodel shows? That’s my house post-playdate. There are smooshed Sour Patch Kids on the carpet, dehydrated capri sun carcasses under the couch, random pieces of sporting equipment in the bathroom, and every doorknob is sticky. It’s a flop house run by 10 year-olds.
Mom Voice Works on All Kids: About every hour and twelve minutes I come out of my office like some middle-aged lady cuckoo clock with a faulty pendulum and shout, Clean up this house! Startled, they drop their game controllers and run through the hallway like they’re contestants on Supermarket Sweet, looking for discarded pizza crusts and candy wrappers, emptying the orange shredded cheese from Lunchables into the compost bin (because they are first and foremost Seattle children), and dumping mostly full La Croix cans down the drain. In these moments they’re like, “Holy shit! There’s a MOM in the house! Quinn’s mom is a MOM!”
I am never more proud.
They’re Very Comfortable in Your Presence:
has an awesome Substack called . In this post, she outlines the 5 defining traits for my son’s generation:passionate about climate activism
digitally savvy
diverse
globally connected
inclusive
I may have discovered a sixth:
unabashedly comfortable laying stink pickles anytime, anywhere, in front of anyone, including someone else’s mom.
My son had a friend who gassed up our house so badly we had to run outside barefoot in the dead of winter to catch our breath. I seriously thought we were going to have to repaint the kitchen. Or move. That kid still thinks it’s one of his greatest accomplishments. There is no shame in their cheese clapping game, but honestly I wish there was maybe a little? These kids look me dead in the eye while telling me what time their parents are picking then up and then prffffffffffrrrrrrrpttttt.
“Nico, did you just fart?”
“Yeah. Do you have any Gatorade?”
And I Mean VERY Comfortable in Your Presence: Despite my complaining, I always wanted to be “the hang out house.” I just didn’t realize how much hanging out that entailed. When my son was three, his newly potty trained buddy called me into the bathroom to help him wipe. (UGH!) I found him bent over, using both hands to spread his apart his butt cheeks. (UGH UGH!)
Thankfully we’re past the age where the friends need my assistance, but you’d think they’d at least want to close the door while laying a brick in my bathroom.
Maybe it’s because these kids grew up a daycare where witnessing other kids pooping was as expected as snack time. (This is actually a very effective method for potty training.) Child Me was afraid to pee at my friend’s house. What if I locked myself in? What if an older brother walked in? What if I used too much toilet paper and clogged the plumbing? I would have shredded my Duran Duran posters with a box cutter before even considering dropping a load there too! (I’m sweating just thinking about it! Oh wait, nope. Just a hot flash!)
And don’t think a little poop-time will interfere with playtime. Sometimes these kids hang out with each other in the bathroom while one of them is on the bowl. Just chilling on the floor with an iPad, watching YouTube, and quizzing each other on basketball stats.
They are Very Critical: Tara Bedford’s mom boiled hotdogs that curled up like fat worms. She then put those wet, fleshy worm dogs on stale buns and fed them to us for lunch. You know what I did? I shut the hell up and ate that shit. You know why? Because that’s what kids did!
Until now!
Nothing turns a group of freshly-woken eight year-olds into a pack of all-inclusive cruise ship Karens like an unfrosted Pop Tart.
“What is this?” a kid asked while chucking the tasty rectangle at the dog’s food bowl.
“It’s cold!” another whined in dismay.
“Garbage!” another kid answered as his judgey, little fist came down on the pastry like an guillotine.
“I HATE YOUR BACON!” one proclaimed before asking us to Door Dash him a Sausage McMuffin.
Simmer down, little Padmas! You know how lucky you are to be offered a goddamn Pop Tart! That shit was urban legend when I was a kid! Hot or cold or lukewarm, I would have taken a mythical toaster pastry® over a trip to Disney World or meeting Gopher from The Love Boat or having that totally rad indoor train Ricky Schroder had on Silver Spoons. I mean, the absolute gall of these kids!
They Talk About Sex: I’m not surprised or mad or clutching my pearls over the thought of 10 year-old kids being curious about sex. Totally normal. I’m not even surprised or mad when the occasional misspelled, but phonetically correct questionable word pops up in our shared search history. Teachable moment, right? I am surprised when they drop these lewd bombs right in front of me and other parents.
“SHELLY! We’re learning sex in school,” one of my son’s friends told me. “I need to get me a study buddy!”
“SHELLY, you like Imagine Dragons? Imagine Dragon deez nuts all over your face!”
“69!” my kid screamed in front of other parents. For no goddamn reason other than to make his friends laugh.
My face? little Connor. How about if I drag this bar of soap right over your face into your filthy little mouth hole? Okay, now I am clutching my pearls!
They Think You’re One of Them: So about that Gen Alpha inclusivity. It’s great, I love it, I preach it, I practice it. But when it’s a bunch of little boys trying to drag me into their reindeer games, I’m all for alienation. These kids think my husband and I are just tall children with bank accounts.
No, I do not want to be your fourth in basketball.
No, I don’t want to “watch you cook” at video games.
No, I don’t want to go to the park and play kickball with that filthy Connor and his filthy friends.
I am working. At my job. Where I go to make money so I can buy twelve seasons of Teen Titans and expensive bacon and frosted, delicious Pop Tarts for you. Also I am a grown-ass woman. The whole point of having a playdate is to provide outside entertainment for my kid while I cull the recordings on our DVR. Leave me alone! But please come back tomorrow!
I want my kid to have friends. I want those friends to know they are welcome in my house. And yeah, sometimes I do want to be the fourth in a basketball game and kick the little asses they wipe themselves. But I also want them to shut the door when they poop. That’s a teachable moment we can all get behind2.
Some light housekeeping:
That’s right, I changed my name. (It’s so much easier to do on Substack than in real life.) We all know I’m Shelly Mazzanoble and we all know I have issues. But is that truly who I am? Or just who I am? NO. I’m a Middle-Aged Lady Mom. In fact, I’m the Middle-Aged Lady Mom. I feel so much more at home in this crepey, pigmented, non-collagen producing skin. So new name, same great content. DON’T PANIC.
I’ll be back next week with some mined treasures of the internet. Thanks as always for reading, sharing, subscribing, and being awesome humans.
XO,
Shelly
The going rate in Seattle which is just one of the reasons my husband and I don’t get out much.
BEHIND! Get it??? See what I did there!?
Love this!!! ♥️♥️