When dating, it’s natural to want to put your best foot forward. This means different things to different people. For me, it means getting all dolled up, smoking some dope and buying some condoms. Kidding. An ex-librarian like me cannot be that exciting, you may muse. Suffice it to say I fall somewhere in the middle.
Other people view children as exciting pawns in relationship-building. My children used to play chess, but now they have become chess pieces in someone’s dating game. She is a botox beotch.
This botox beotch (uncapitalized name to signify insignificance) seemed friendly enough (almost too friendly?) when she was pumping me for information about my husband. Now that that’s settled, why not pump the kids too? I call this behavior Dating My Kids With A Disturbing Ulterior Motive In Mind. Most adults can guess what that motive is. If not, stop for a moment and think. Some might call it a biological instinct, which it is…but use caution, please!
My daughter may swoon over the leopard-print manicure you provide her, or the skimpy bikini you buy her to wear in your pool (with her real mother she must wear a rashguard while swimming – you just helped undermine me). My sons may admire your video game collection. Your smelly dog may provide limited entertainment, and your dinners surely rival my cooking, I’m proud to admit – but knock yourself out all you want. You are absolutely nobody. And you always will be. Dating My Children cements your status a rung below Snow White’s wicked stepmother. They wouldn’t even write a fairy tale about you.
Dating My Kids, botox beotch, belies one fundamental principle: you may date them all you want, but you will never be their mother. Stick to your own mussed-up family, your own 2-1/2 kids who are floundering. You can have my husband. Believe me, he’s ALL yours. But get your sticky, stinky, dating claws out of my kids.
|bb has herself (in) a pickle