I am generally a pretty calm, fun loving chick. I’m the kind of mom who doesn’t fret when all the couch cushions are on the floor because, hey! It’s a bounce house!  I’m the kind of mom who says, hey! Let’s have ICE CREAM FOR DINNER!  I’m a fun mom.

 

Seriously. I get all my angst out here, so I can love my kids. Otherwise? I’d eat them.

 

Okay, so, being this laid back, fun loving, cool mom, you’d think playdates would cause me nary a worry.

 

You’d be dead fucking wrong.

 

Today, we had the Playdate from Hell. Beelzebub herself came to play with the Drama Queen and she was here for TWO WHOLE HOURS.

 

Two hours with Beelzebub, complete with sharp, pointy teeth. Not my idea of a good time.

 

Our afternoon started out with Drama Queen and Beelzebub enjoying some pizza in my kitchen. And by “enjoying some pizza”, I mean, not sitting for one second in their chairs and not taking a single bite.  Well, that’s not entirely true. Drama Queen did eat about half her slice. Beelzebub (who had asked me for two slices, and who had received two slices) did not take a single bite. Not one. And then loudly proclaimed herself DONE and ran away.

 

Fine with me, I’m not the one who’s going to hear her whining about how hungry she is five minutes before dinner.

 

The girls went to play in Drama Queen’s bedroom and I settled in at my dining room table to work on work. Five seconds later, Beelzebub is at my arm, telling me “Her won’t play hide and seek with me.”  (By the by, “her” is five years old. As is Beelzebub. She’s got the grammar of a toddler.  That shit don’t fly, here, folks.)

 

She won’t play hide and seek?”

 

“No, HER won’t play!”

 

Oh boy.

 

After fighting over playdoh, who was going to get to be the “Mommy”, and whether or not Duplos can be considered “REAL blocks”, the afternoon culminated with a scream from Drama Queen, who ran in to me, holding her eye.

 

Please God, don’t let it be dangling out of her head. (Hey, I’m a realist.)

 

Beelzebub had poked my daughter in the eye during the epic Battle of Duplo. Drama Queen (for once) wasn’t being overly dramatic when she screamed. When I got her to move her hand and open her eye, it was clear that this child’s grimy finger had burst blood vessels in my daughter’s eye.

 

I knew that was what happened, because her eye looked just like mine, after I finished pushing her stubborn ass out of my body, during which time, I popped blood vessels in MY eye.

 

She assured me that it wasn’t hurting anymore, because after checking this kid’s fingers, I was worried that her nails might have scratched Drama Queen’s cornea. Then I could have saddled her parents with medical bills. Which would have been fun for me. But, no, just some burst blood vessels.

 

When Beelzebub’s mother came to pick her up, Beelzebub climbed on the top bunk in Drama Queen’s bedroom and refused to come down. REFUSED. Flatly.  She held up a doll I was sure she was going to chuck right at her mother’s head, and it was at that point that I ordered my own daughter to my side and left the room.  If shit was going to start flying, I didn’t want it hitting me or mine.

 

And anything that got broken, you know, I could present the bill to her parents. Again, fun for me.

 

But, she didn’t throw the doll, or anything else. I have no idea how her mother got her off the bed, but she did, and she wrestled her into her clothes and after much screaming and kicking and maybe even some biting, they left my house and headed for their car.

 

DUDE. I complain about my kids. A LOT. Particularly Drama Queen, who is so…well, dramatic. But dear God, I would slit my own throat while suspended from my ankles, a la cows being slaughtered, if I had to deal with that EVERY SINGLE DAY.

 

Later on, Drama Queen told me, “I don’t want Beelzebub to ever come back, Mommy.” and I said, “Me either.” But, then, thought better of it. I mean, I am super duper grateful, suddenly to have my amazingly awesome kiddos. Grateful enough to take them out for Mexican, despite my Kill the Fluff Diet.

 

“Maybe we should have her over, like, once a month. Just so I remember how good I’ve got it. Okay?”

 

“Yeah, sure. She can play with Miss Poopie Pants. I’ll go out with Daddy.”

 

“Sounds like a plan. And I’ll drink. A lot.”

 

Also? I am so not kidding about those sharp pointy teeth, my minions. Not at all. Fucking ouch.

Advertisements