As I was saying . . .

As I was saying, I don’t actually hate the suburbs. I grew up in Springfield, Virginia. The land of military men, FBI agents and Wives Who Didn’t Work.

And growing up in Springfield – then – actually wasn’t too bad. We had woods and creeks and streets safe enough to ride our bikes on and there were plenty enough mothers who were home that it was cool to simply run allover the fucking place doing whatever you more or less wanted.

There was little league in the summer. And every community pool had a swimming team for those fools who wanted to spend a good part of their summer vacation at a 7 a.m. swimming practice in cold pool water. Me, I always summer vacation was meant for sleeping late. If I was up before my father left for work, the day was pretty much a failure.

But frankly, I could do with fewer fucking little kids around.

Oh, I have nothing against children. I have two granddaughters I love and assorted nieces and nephews, most of whom I am very fond of. I just don’t like having to spend as much time around them – and their, for the most part, pin-headed parents – as I have to.

I work all week. Pretty hard most of the time too. Owning a small advertising agency isn’t easy. Not by a long shot. There is plenty of stress to go around there, just trying to make a living and be happy doing it. So when I get home in the evening and when I wander around on the weekends, I want some peace and quiet. I don’t want to find a fucking bike or toy in my front yard. I don’t want to see fucking chalk drawings on the sidewalk in front of my house and I sure as hell don’t want to listen to fucking screaming, yelling children all around.

Sorry, but I just don’t. I guess I don’t subscribe to the “it takes a village” approach to child-rearing. I don’t ask you to participate in my life and I damn sure don’t want to participate in yours. I don’t think everything your child does it cute.

Feel free to go on and raise them without my participation.