I Don't Like Your Kids

Tuesday was election day and my son and I went to vote. Because election day isn't yet considered a national holiday, I had to get an early start because work-duty still called.

My son is 16-months old and a whirlwind of energy and activity. He's not one to simply be held and watch those around him. He wants to get his hands on everything, and everyone, around him. A future politician, perhaps?

But what gets me the most is that when I have my son with me in public, it seems that it's an open invitation to discuss kids. It also seems to imply that a)I like kids and b)I care about your kids.

It happens everywhere, not just on election day. It happens in line at the grocery store. It happens walking through Home Depot. It happens out at dinner with the family.

I like my kid. In fact, I love him and he's the best thing in the world. The world's greatest toy, my own personal daily entertainer. He's the court jester of our home. However, I'm not much of a fan of other kids. No offense to them, I just don't care for them. They're loud and a bit obnoxious at times.

But everyone in line around me at the polling station wanted to ask me about my son (which I don't mind too much--he's pretty awesome and highly deserving of being talked about), talk about their own kids, and point out to me all the other little kids in the room.

The older lady in front of me made a point to single out each child under the age of five in the room, but also to inform me each time a child entered the room.

"Oh, look at that little girl," the elder voter said and I'd have to turn around and acknowledge the little girl. "She's so cute, isn't she?" I sheepishly grinned and said "Of course."

You see, cute kids and the cute things they do just isn't my scene. Having my son with me is not an invisible nod that I do, in fact, appreciate small children. My son was with me because I wanted his company on a historic day in our country and I wanted to be able to tell him years from now that he voted with me on that day.

It was all I could do to keep my son under wraps and from terrorizing the whole station. I had a constant hand on him. It's as if his legs are constantly moving and my grasp on him keeps him somewhat immobile. If I were to let go, he'd be off like a spring-loaded car, headed in any direction.

Here's the bottom line: Don't assume parents want to talk about your kid. I don't. If you ask about my son I'll let you know about him. But I'm not that concerned about yours. Call me a jerk if you like, but I've only got so much soft-hearted child-love and adoration and it's all reserved for my son.