I’ll be the first to admit, I do not like small children.  I find them clingy, insufferable, needy and constant attention whores.  It’s like a little shriveled version of myself.

Yesterday, I was surrounded by three kids ages 4, 6 & 8.  They are the spawn of my dear friend Kiki.  Even though she knows I don’t enjoy children, she still subjects me to them.  “Immersion therapy”, she calls it.  The day started early with a trip to an outdoor diner.  Ethan, Elise and Spencer were all calm and relatively well behaved when they arrived.  I was hoping Kiki had drugged them to keep them complacent.  “No, I did not drug them, for Chrissake!  They just haven’t had any sugar,” Keek barked.

My single solitary goal for the rest of the day was to ensure they did not have an ounce of sugar.  That lasted about 45 seconds.  After arriving at the diner, they immediately started guzzling soda.   After two swigs, all three children were sweaty, hyperventilating and talking gibberish.  I’ve been around calmer meth addicts.  The children continued to find walls to bounce off of for the next 8 hours.

What happened to the days when kids took naps?   I’ll tell you … they’re over.

Everything is an adventure when you’ve got three kids in tow.   Take going to the store, for instance.  We were in the supermarket for less than 60 seconds when the kids had made a beeline for the bakery.  Inexplicably, the bakery gives out free cookies to kids.  I took one look at the bespectacled woman wearing an obnoxious hairnet and said, “Just shoot me now.”  She smiled and gave them each two more.

For some reason, the kids seem to find me particularly amusing when I use any one of the weird voices I’ve got in my arsenal.  Their favorite?  My spot-on impersonation of a strong black woman from the South.  By the end of the day I had them each walking up to complete strangers and asking, “Howyou durrrrrin’?”  We had a little bit more difficulty in learning the intricate “Mamasaymamasawmamamamamoosaw” line from that one Michael Jackson song.

Keek’s husband was less than pleased.  I didn’t care.

We ended the night making homemade pizzas.  As predicted, sauce somehow ended up on the ceiling.  The kids wanted nothing to do with my gourmet chicken sausage, mushroom and roasted red pepper concoction.  They were quite content with their pineapple and pepperoni atrocity.  (I nearly threw up.)

When I left the kids were running around in circles and/or chasing each other around the couch.  They were also screaming in a decibel that is only  to be used as an illegal torture device.  It was also at an octave typically reserved for Guantanamo Bay.

When I left, Katie was in her element.  The mommy with the mostest.  It’s nice being a faux uncle because I get to leave whenever I want.