I’m not particularly fond of anyone still in his or her single digits.  If you’re under the age of, say, about 12, you and I will likely not get along.  Why? Because I really don’t like kids.

There … I said it.

For whatever reason, children gravitate to me like I’m some sort of new puppy that needs to be played with or petted.  And, try as I might, I’m only tolerant of wee-ones for the first thirty seconds or so, then I lose my patience (and my mind).  Kids are often loud, sticky and abrasive … in that order.  And it’s nearly impossible to have an adult conversation with them about the works of Camus or Tolstoy.

When I mention that I don’t particularly like children, people think I’m kidding.  “Oh, come on!  You’ll LOVE our kids,” my reproductive friends will say.  “Our kids are well-behaved and gracious.”  (Several times I’ve actually had to repress the urge to yell, “BLASHPHEMER!” at the top of my lungs.)

Here are the main reasons why kids and I will never be BFF’s:

1) If there’s a child in the room, they will siphon all the attention away from me, which is CLEARLY where it should be.

2) Kids are selfish. “ME, ME, ME! MINE, MINE, MINE!”, they’ll yell.  It’s like a little shriveled version of myself.

3) Children are noisy.  En masse, they are deafening.  This world would be a whole lot better if kids came with volume control or a mute button.  Whatever cantankerous, crusty individual wrote, “Children should be seen and not heard” was the wisest person who ever lived.

4) I can only feign interest for so long before an in-depth discussion of “Dora the Explorer” or”The Wiggles” becomes wholly insufferable.

There are approximately six children on this earth that I can tolerate in small doses.  But that’s mainly because I’ve been forced to be around them since they were born.

One of ‘em is my godson, Spencer.

Yes, my best friend Kiki foolishly asked me to be her kid’s godparent.  I accepted, but only because I was drunk at the time.  Turns out, this is something that you can’t renege on either.  Bummer.

(*Although I did purchase him this super-cute onesie in the picture!)

I’ve watched Spencer blossom from a hyperactive 2-year old to a hyperactive 4-year old.  Now at the ripe old age of 6 (or is it 7?), I’ve come to realize that he will always have more energy than any other kid in a 90-mile radius.  Eventually, he’ll mature in to a spastic adolescent and then a frenetic, kinetic adult.  Years from now, he’ll probably ask me to be his new baby’s grand-godparent.  Godspeed, kid.  Godspeed.

Raising a kid (or multiple kids) takes a village.  Not only do I applaud any parent that does it, I have the utmost respect for you.  Just don’t ask me to babysit.  Or come to your child’s BDay party.  That would be my own little personal hell.  (But feel free to save me a piece of cake.  Mmmm … cake.  Guess I’m still kinda-sorta a big kid at heart.)