To be honest, I can’t stand small children.  Even as a small child, I could barely stand myself — let alone other youngsters.  This would NOT be a problem save for the fact that kids under ten tend to worship me.  Is it because I treat them like shriveled adults?  Maybe it’s because I refuse to cater to their whimsy?  Or because they appreciate that I tell it like it is.  “No, you cannot have that godforsaken piece of candy … now get off my back you sniveling, whiny, insufferable brat.”

Last night I somehow found myself trapped at my best friend’s Deirdre’s house where she harbors two small bambinos, Collin, 5.5 years old and Declan, 2.  She lured me in with the promise of good wine and sushi.  I fell for it — again.  Next thing you know, I’m being used as a jungle gym.  Two rambunctious young boys and a mildly retarded labradoodle were leaping on, off, around or near me, without permission.  (Note the children are both dressed like mini-Hugh Hefners.)

Because screaming “GET OFF ME, YOU DAMN MUNCHKINS” would have upset the balance of the evening, I patiently waited until they calmed down.  It never happened.  I was Uncle Michael … a.k.a. “the fun one”.  Not sure how I got that nickname and not sure how I’m going to get rid of it.

At one point Collin was yelling through a cylindrical tube creating some sort of megaphone effect.  I calmly turned to him and said, “Collin, I had a stroke about a year ago, and my ears are highly sensitive to your general loudness.”  Collin stopped, looked at me and rolled his eyes like only a 5.5-year old can do.  “Quit making excuses,” he said.  Deirdre’s wine came out her nose.

The last time I visited Deirdre, she and her husband Kipp disappeared for nearly 30 minutes forcing me to entertain the kids.  Since they’re both health nuts, my theory is they jogged an entire 5K by themselves for the first time in years.  This time, at least, they were around to supervise.

Kipp brought home some fabulous cookies fresh from a bakery.  They were used as bribery most of the evening.  The cookies were only available after-dinner and only if the kids were well behaved.  For the most part, it worked.  As God as my witness, Collin walked up to me while I was sitting talking to Deirdre and whispered, “Uncle Michael, help yourself to a cookie … while I distract her.”  I quickly ratted out Collin to Deirdre who did not believe a word of it.  So I asked Collin to repeat what he said, verbatim.  And he did.  At least he’s an HONEST, sneaky little child prodigy.

Of course, the highlight of the evening was reading them a bedtime story.  The book was about a toy train or something.  I had been drinking wine most of the evening, so my performance was hindered by alcohol imbibing.  The weird part?  Both kids sat patiently in my lap thoroughly entranced until I was done with the story of “Brassy, The Choo-Choo”.   I was pretty proud of myself.

It was only AFTER the fact that Kipp pulled me aside and hissed, “We only read every OTHER sentence — if that.  You’re making us look bad.”  And then, because of my behavior, refused to let me have a cookie.  I threw a complete wine-infused tantrum right there in the kitchen.  Not only did Kipp toss me the entire bag of baked goods, he even added a plate of fresh strawberries.

I turned to Collin and Declan announced, “And that, my little friends, is how it’s REALLY done.”