Gather round, children.  I have a tale of woe and fright which you should heed.

The world for you now is all peppermint and puppies.  You are given food when hungry, a warm safe bed to sleep in, and activities to grow your sweet young minds.  You are loved unconditionally, and someone is forever taking your photo because you are cute.  You have toys and playmates, play-do and guilt–free chocolate chip cookies.  Yes, guilt-free.  You have not yet met the phenomenon of apologizing for eating that which pleases you. 

Instead of Mother, may I please have another you will grow up and push the cookies away saying, “My doctor says I can’t indulge.”

And doctors – instead of once a year for a physical and the occasional cold, you will have to go once a week and pay the money you earn at a job you have grown to hate for the privilege.  And it is significant money.  No pocket money for the movies or a small toy at the Walmart.  No ice-cold Orange Crush on a hot afternoon.  $65 copay and $200 for the prescription du jour that tastes likes toadstools soaked in gasoline and sprinkled with black licorice.

You have so many doctors that your sick leave at the job you have grown to hate is not sufficient and you have to use your beach days.  Yes. Precious trips to be a kid again at the beach are canceled or curtailed because of the growing collection of doctors in your monster closet.

And that’s not all. The job you have grown to hate does not pay enough to keep up with not just your doctors but your taxes.  Taxes are money you give to the government in exchange for, supposedly, services and protections you receive in return.  These services and protections never seem to serve and protect what you have or need.

The house you live in takes more of your money if you can find people to make the repairs needed.  Often you will live with a drippy faucet that keeps you awake at night because no one will take your money and fix it or you don’t have as much money as they say they need to fix it. You will spend your free time cleaning it, cutting the grass, and washing the windows except when you are at the Home Depot buying the things you need to do that with the dwindling money from the job you have growing to hate.

Instead of kindergarten with soft mats to sit on for story time, you will have to go t that job you are growing to hate.  There instead of a room with colorful carpets and crepe paper flowers on a bulletin board you will be met with a beige cubicle and a sign that says Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here, Wash Your Qwn Dishes. Instead of a smiling teacher who draws happy faces on your worksheets, you will have Brad the Boss who constantly criticizes you and complains about how many times you use the restroom.  Brad is all frowny faces and plans for improvement.

When work is finally done.  You will get in your car just like hundreds of others and fight heavy traffic to get home where you have to rush to prepare dinner and wash dishes and do a load of laundry and watch Wheel of Fortune while your kids frolic in the bathtub.

Yes.  Your kids are having fun.  You are not.  Be a kid.  As long as you can.