Dear Everyone I Know Who Has Kids,
I know I just recently wrote you a letter telling you why you suck. This is not one of those. In fact, this letter is to acknowledge and apologize for my own suckitude. It’s true. I kind of really suck.
So here’s the thing: You totally thoughtfully and with much effort, I’m sure, mailed to us an adorable birthday invitation to your kiddo’s party. No really, it’s so cute. The paper cutouts and handwritten directions totally made me feel inferior as a parent and human being. It’s a work of art. And the picture of your little one? Made my womb ache. Seriously. I had to take a Tylenol for womb pain; it was that cute.
When I got this invite in the mail, I immediately took it over to my office (AKA: the kitchen table, piled high with papers, my laptop, a scanner and other crap) and checked my calendar to see if we were free for the party. I saw that it was a Saturday afternoon in about a month.
That Saturday is currently looking open, so I started to make note of your party, but then I thought about it. I don’t have work on the calendar in one month, yet, but I’ve shown property the last 7 Saturday in a row during this time slot. I could schedule around the party and make a point not to show property that Saturday, but until they perfect cloning or a money tree I can cultivate in my backyard, not working isn’t really an option.
Here’s what I ended up doing; I took your sweet invite and I put it on the fridge under a super strong magnet. I put it right at eye-level so I wouldn’t forget. I tabled the issue because hey, maybe I will not have appointments that day! Maybe it will be one of those lovely (but disconcerting) quiet weekends and then I really could go to the party. Or maybe I’ll decide to send Jason alone, with all three kids. (I do prefer to come home to a lack of bloodshed and a living family, though, so that one’s probably not super likely, until they invent a medication that grows patience in adults and/or calmness and common sense in children.)
As of now I have roughly 45 of those invites on the fridge. And not only did I not mark any of them on the calendar, but I also didn’t RSVP to any of them. I didn’t say we were going and I didn’t say we weren’t going. I felt guilty just assuming I’ll have to work and saying I’m skipping your party regardless, because I really do want to go! But I didn’t want you to count on the five of us knowing that in all likelihood, I’m going to be touring a buyer around Gilbert to 9 houses and then rushing to meet a different client for a final walk-through right after and Jason and the boys will be fending for themselves in a way that will involve trying not to kill each other and also get a few things done around the house.
Please take comfort in knowing that when you called/emailed/texted the day before your party to ask, ‘Um, HELLO? Are you coming (the Asshole that belongs right here is implied)?’ I felt like a horrible friend. I know I’m developing a reputation. I also know it means no one will be attending my kids’ parties any time soon. It’s OK, I understand. I’m actually only going to invite kids from their classes who don’t yet know I’m that girl who doesn’t RSVP and almost never comes.
Someday I’ll learn how to manage this all correctly. It will probably be when I’m 85 and no one is inviting me to anything anymore, but still, someday I’ll get it. Until then, know that I love you and your kid and I know that I’m an Asshole. I wish I could go to your parties.
Love and kisses,
The Girl Who Sucks at RSVPing
PS – I also almost never write thank you notes. I know, I’m going to hell.