All that said, I felt the Imaginings in the December 2007 issue could have been one page instead of two. In fact, as I neared the bottom of the first page, I was confused, as I thought it was building toward a conclusion, not another full page.
The first thing you’ll see is my edited version. After that, the original article, with the appropriate strikethroughs. (And before you ask, I have no real explanation for my compulsion for editing the Walrus, save for the fact that these edits take no real time on my part and appear, at least to me, necessary and obvious. Give an editor a pair of digital scissors, and he or she will see every problem as a set of loose threads in need of trimming. The danger of this blinkered and reductive view of the world can be summarized in the old German proverb “I cut it three times, and it’s still too short.”)
The Death of the PlayDate
Dear Unborn Child,
The other day, my yoga teacher was talking about reincarnation, and suddenly it occurred to me that you might be wondering why you haven’t been born yet — or, to be perfectly honest, why I’m not having you. I know it’s a little late to be telling you this, but if you’re half as brilliant as I always knew you’d be, you gave up on me many menstrual cycles ago. Still, I feel I owe you an explanation, especially since I’ve read that kids tend to blame themselves for their parents’ shortcomings. (See? It’s no picnic being a kid anyway.)
I want you to know that my decision not to have you is nothing personal (“It’s not you, it’s me”), but has to do with the fact that being a kid these days looks only slightly less depressing than being a parent. I blame it all on the word playdate. Like a screaming baby on an airplane, the word acts as an aural contraceptive for me. I remember the first time I heard it as clearly as I remember hearing about the cancellation of Arrested Development. Playdate has the ring of death to me — the death of hope, fun, freedom, and pretty much anything worth looking forward to. The greatest oxymoron since peace force, playdate exemplifies the BlackBerrying of childhood, and everything about modern parenting that has caused vasectomies and tubal ligation to feature prominently in my sexual fantasies.
It’s not as if there’s a grammatical rationale for playdate. It’s not easier to say “Tyler has a playdate at Zack’s house at five o’clock” than “Tyler’s going to play at Zack’s house at five o’clock.” The only reason for it, other than to infect children with parental misery, is to convey the concept of a playdate, which is every bit as un-fun, antiseptic, and counterintuitive as the word itself: a playdate is what happens when two “caregivers” (retch) make an appointment for their kids to play together (dry heave).
Why can’t kids make their own plans? Because kids can’t stand on their own front porches without a helmet anymore, let alone run (what if they fall? ) over to a friend’s house (which friend? is the house childproofed?) to play (with matches? guns? vibrators?) on a whim (a gateway instinct leading to full-blown independence). Letting a child go next door to hang out for a while? You might as well suggest they build a crystal meth lab in a pedophile’s attic and then sell what they don’t smoke to the Hells Angels. And if you, my unborn darling, aren’t already counting your lucky stars in whatever dimension you’re living in, get this: playdates aren’t just for children; for toddlers and “first playdates,” parents are expected to come along, too.
Nobody believes me, but I walked to and from my downtown Toronto nursery school on my own when I was two and a half years old. I know it’s true, because when I asked my mom about it recently, she became very defensive. “We lived on a dead-end street!” she cried. “The school was just around the corner!” I also have a vivid memory of running home alone crying after peeing in my leotards. At three, I already had my own group of friends and — except for school and mealtimes — we ran around delightfully free and unsupervised. We not only learned the laws of the jungle; we made up a few ourselves.
Okay, so once my parents found me and a boy from up the street under the porch with our pants down. Who knows — maybe it was my idea? The occasional hard lesson is a small price to pay for freedom, and a very effective way to learn; I haven’t been found unclothed under a porch in years.
But thanks to the current atmosfear surrounding children and childhood kids must be constantly supervised by adults, and (preferably) driven everywhere (preferably in a sturdy Land Rover). And in the unlikely event that you (let alone I) survive your childhood, you may then look forward to climate change, overpopulation, terrorism, pandemics, iPod people, religious fundamentalism, nuclear/religious Armageddon, human cloning, a more barbaric and increasingly patriarchal culture and, even worse, the music being played on mainstream radio. This is not to mention mommy blogs, thousand-dollar strollers, and pre-conception daycare registration.
Given all this, a more obnoxious person than your potential mother — surely there must be one? — might ask: do you have to be a stupid idiot to have children? The question, I think, is clearly rhetorical.
Love,
(How shall I sign this?)
Almost-Mom
-------------------------------
Dear Unborn Child,
The other day, my yoga teacher was talking about reincarnation, and suddenly it occurred to me that you might be wondering why you haven’t been born yet — or, to be perfectly honest, why I’m not having you. I know it’s a little late to be telling you this, but if you’re half as brilliant as I always knew you’d be, you gave up on me many menstrual cycles ago. Still, I feel I owe you an explanation, especially since I’ve read that kids tend to blame themselves for their parents’ shortcomings. (See? It’s no picnic being a kid anyway.)
I want you to know that my decision not to have you is nothing personal (“It’s not you, it’s me”), but has to do with the fact that being a kid these days looks only slightly less depressing than being a parent. I blame it all on the word playdate. Like a screaming baby on an airplane, the word acts as an aural contraceptive for me. I remember the first time I heard it as clearly as I remember hearing about the cancellation of Arrested Development
It’s not as if there’s a grammatical rationale for playdate. It’s not easier to say “Tyler has a playdate at Zack’s house at five o’clock” than “Tyler’s going to play at Zack’s house at five o’clock.” The only reason for it, other than to infect children with parental misery, is to convey the concept of a playdate, which is every bit as un-fun, antiseptic, and counterintuitive as the word itself: a playdate is what happens when two “caregivers” (retch) make an appointment for their kids to play together (dry heave).
Why can’t kids make their own plans? Because kids can’t stand on their own front porches without a helmet anymore, let alone run (what if they fall? ) over to a friend’s house (which friend? is the house childproofed?) to play (with matches? guns? vibrators?) on a whim (a gateway instinct leading to full-blown independence). Letting a child go next door to hang out for a while? You might as well suggest they build a crystal meth lab in a pedophile’s attic and then sell what they don’t smoke to the Hells Angels. And if you, my unborn darling, aren’t already counting your lucky stars in whatever dimension you’re living in, get this: playdates aren’t just for children; for toddlers and “first playdates,” parents are expected to come along, too.
Nobody believes me, but I walked to and from my downtown Toronto nursery school on my own when I was two and a half years old. I know it’s true, because when I asked my mom about it recently, she became very defensive. “We lived on a dead-end street!” she cried. “The school was just around the corner!” I also have a vivid memory of running home alone crying after peeing in my leotards. At three, I already had my own group of friends and — except for school and mealtimes — we ran around delightfully free and unsupervised. We not only learned the laws of the jungle; we made up a few ourselves.
Okay, so once my parents found me and a boy from up the street under the porch with our pants down. Who knows — maybe it was my idea? The occasional hard lesson is a small price to pay for freedom, and a very effective way to learn; I haven’t been found unclothed under a porch in years.
Thanks to the current atmosfear surrounding children and childhood
Given all this, a more obnoxious person than your potential mother — surely there must be one? — might ask: do you have to be a stupid idiot to have children?
Love,
(How shall I sign this?)
Almost-Mom
POSTED ON MYSOUL.COM: 01/09/07
Dear Almost-Mom,
Thanks for your letter. No hard feelings about your decision not to have me (not sure I get the whole playdate thing, but I’m glad you got it off your chest). Don’t forget, I chose you. I take full responsibility for my decision and am ready to move on.
Best wishes,
Almost-Child
POSTED ON MYSOUL.COM: 05/09/07
Dear Almost-Child,
That’s it? Four sentences? Still, you can’t imagine how thrilled your almost-mother was to receive your message! Hearing from you instantly changed my mind: I’ve decided to have you after all. I’ve moved to Montreal, where, thanks to subsidized daycare and ever-increasing federal transfer payments, I can make a better living as an unemployed mother than I could working full time in Toronto. (Vive le séparatisme!) I’m currently searching for an appropriate father/sperm donor and have already frozen enough eggs to hatch a whole Brady Bunch — and Alice! So please don’t move on — stay tuned for further instructions as to when to get your ethereal ass down here.
XXXOOOXXXOOO,
Future-Mom/Mère-de-l’avenir
PS: I’ve set up a webcam here. Is that possible in your realm? I’m dying to lay eyes on you. By the way, my hair isn’t usually this dark. I’m seeing my colourist next week.
POSTED ON MYSOUL.COM: 15/09/07
Dear Almost-Mom,
Sorry, but it’s too late. I just accepted another offer — one I couldn’t refuse. To make a long story short, I managed to negotiate a guaranteed adoption by a major celebrity within ten days of birth (I’m hoping for Angelina, as Madonna and Mia are old enough to be my grandmothers). It’s nothing personal — who could say no to that lifestyle? I just hope I’m photogenic.
Good luck finding another candidate.
Womb wishes,
Almost-Child
PS: A bit of advice: enough with the TV references. Nobody under twenty watches TV anymore.
