Please Don’t Gaslight Me About My Awful Kid

I know this happened and you didn’t say shit about it. (Image Credit: Allen Taylor)

I am so happy that my little Jaxstyn was able to attend Brixten’s birthday sleepover. But please, one parent to another, do not tell me that he is “such an angel.”

Believe me, I feel an indescribable depth of relief over his choice to not strike any other child in the face for looking at him wrong, or for holding a toy he was potentially thinking about playing with at some undetermined time.

And the fact that he ate your family’s famous salmon mushroom casserole without a complaint or floor-sprawling tantrum is a welcome solace from our own nightly struggle to get him to even sniff a piece of food — even if I am now also baffled to the point of frustrated rage.

But when I come to pick him up, and tepidly ask, “How did it go?” and you exuberantly gush, “Oh, he’s just so sweet! He can come over any time!” I want to stab you in the neck.

As a parent yourself, you should know that I know that some shit went down that you’re not telling me about out of some misguided play at civility. Or maybe you didn’t have your goddamn head on a swivel when there were tiny interlopers in your midst, looking for any possible opportunity to wreak fresh new havoc. If so, you missed something and you need to figure it out ASAP.

Have you even looked under the couch cushions yet?

Are all of your toilets functioning?

Your pets. Do they seem… sadder now?

No, I’m sorry, but my child is not “a delight” from whom your own children “can learn a thing or two.” In fact, given that he’s now had a solid 18 hours with them, I actually fear the level of chaos wisdom shared between them.

Oh, and did you know that my “darling boy” said that the whole inside of your house smells like his dad’s yard shoes?

He did.

We were actually still backing out of your driveway at the time. He was smiling and waving to you and your kids when he said it.

So again, thank you so much for inviting him and for giving us the respite we so desperately needed. We drank the whole time. I was almost dysfunctionally hungover when I picked him up.

But do me a favor next time (and if there isn’t a next time, I completely understand). When I arrive to retrieve my hell hound, fling open the door as I’m still knocking, and shove him at me with the feral urgency I know you truly feel. Say something like, “I’m so sorry about your life” or just shove a loose handful of pills into my pocket.

I will respect you more. Hell, I’ll trust you more.

Let’s move forward as a united parental front, standing strongly and honestly together against our children who, make no mistake, conspire against us.

And so in this new spirit of transparency, let me say this: yours are no saints. Once, after a play date at your house, my son said your kids showed him the dark web. They bought ecstasy! I never told you, because I confiscated it and ended up taking it at a work conference.