Already that time? I’m due to meet Sam’s parents (and entire family) in two weeks. I woke up to a text on Sunday morning inviting me to his parent’s Christmas party. While it may be a tad soon, I still find it cute that he wants to introduce me to the family. It affirms he’s into me as much as I am him. We’ve only been on four dates, but it feels like more. That counts for something. I like where things are heading. I’m not about to bore anyone by babbling on about how amazing he is, but so far he’s pretty damn great.
Anyhow… apparently there is going to be kids at this party because he mentioned that we have to go shopping at Target for them beforehand.
Only problem is – I’m terrible with kids. God fucking awful with kids. Kids see me and immediately run the other way because my disdain for them is evident. I scare them. They scare me. I’ve never been a mushy, gushy, cutesy kind of girl and have difficulty interacting with anyone under the age of 13. Kids just don’t do it for me.
There’s a reason I’m a licensed high school teacher and not an elementary teacher. (Bet you didn’t guess that I was/ am supposed to be an English teacher…) I teach/taught teenagers because I loathe little children. I don’t want to play with them. I don’t want their dirty hands touching me. I can’t stand their high-pitched squealing. Kids and I do not mix. Once they are over 13, I don’t mind them anymore. You can have a normal discussion with them that doesn’t focus around the latest episode of Dora the Explorer.
Do I want kids of my own? Someday. I’ll probably love my kids (I hope so). It’s just I don’t enjoy being bothered with other people’s kids. My reaction is ugly and virtually impossible to hide. I don’t think this is necessarily abnormal… my dad is the same way, but he’s an awesome father. He always reminds me that it will be “different when they are mine.”
When it comes to meeting the children in the family, I’ll be putting on the performance of my lifetime. Seriously, I might have to throw a ball to them (and not at them), dress up a doll or participate in some form of unsavory playtime activity. Sam doesn’t need to realize my contempt for little ones so soon in our relationship. It could turn him off. I must pretend to thoroughly enjoy the “tiny darlings.”
His parents, on the other hand, I’m not so worried about. I’m nervous, but I’m sure I’ll do better than I will with a three year old snot-laden child.
I say this now, but I’m going to be a nervous wreck when facing the folks in two weeks.