Not a teacher...more like a zookeeper.

So in last night's post that I had to publish tonight, we've established that I'm not a kid person and that, in general, any kid story you might tell me that you think is cute or funny or whatever...I'm going to think is lame. In a way, it isn't so much kids that bug me but the adults who interpret the kids actions or condone them that really gets on my nerves.

And therein lies the kicker: I would like kids if I liked their parents. But when the kids are the offspring of stupidity incarnate and act like even more immature versions of their parents, I'm driven to the brink. And it's anything but funny or cute.

There are a few kids that I don't mind hearing stories about:
-My own, but I'm biased because I am usually the one telling the stories
-My older sister's Sherry's kids
-My bestest friend Audrey's daughter
-My old supervisor's grandson

And that's about it. I would like to hear more stories about my older sister Denise's kids but at this time that isn't feasible.

And I don't like Supernanny. Sure, she's freakin' perfect and the kids will listen to her marginally while she's there. Ever notice that there is never a follow-up a year later with any of these families to showcase how their life has changed for the positive since the Supernanny experience?

Shows like Supernanny and Nanny 911 always show the overwhelmed, often irritable parents and their fruitless attempts at discipline by spanking, yelling, etc while the "Nanny" looks at the camera in disgust. What we need, folks, what-we-the parents-that-are-overwhelmed-and-at-our-breaking-point-need most is a Nanny for *us.* Not someone who is going to come in and cluck her tongue in disapproval. Most of all, we need good prescription sedatives. But alas, that's a another post.

I'm obviously on a PMS tirade right now. I'm trying to insert humor. But for years now I've watched the commercials that show the parents having tea parties with their kids, or the mom playing dress-up with her kids, etc. And the thing is, they look THRILLED to death to be doing it. I've had to reconcile a lot a guilt over the fact that I would rather sever my own limb, in a desert, alone, with a spork- than play dress-up or tea party with my kids. I've tried playing with them and they've asked me to leave because my monster truck isn't supposed to fire back witty retorts at their monster truck. Or my Barbie was too sarcastic.

I still do stuff with them, mostly under the clever guise of chores. But I can't hang in the Mattel/Sega/Tonka club.

And that leads me to the next subject: Disneyland. That is the least happiest place in the world. The only thing about Disneyland that I actually enjoyed was watching Dylan, then 1-year-old, ohh and coo over the night parade and fireworks. But we can do that at home with some gun powder. It was in Disneyland that I learned how many circuits I had in my brain and at what rapid speed they can blow. I'm surprised I wasn't wheeled out of that place, drooling on myself and rocking back and forth.

Left to my own devices, the happiest place on earth for me is the left corner of my couch with me firmly planted on it, coffee within arm's reach and good book in hand.

The only problem? My children view me on the leftside of the couch like I view Disneyland: They don't want to go there, they want it over with as soon as possible, and they will go nuts if I persist.