Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things
Yesterday I spent some time with two of my friends and separately they told me of the cool things you can do with them. Stephanie enjoys spending money on clothing for her sister's kid ( "It's just like having a life-size dress up doll that you can buy accessories for!") while Second-hand Bookstore Steve had an elaborate three day project in which he bought his nieces a few disposable cameras and set them specific tasks. Apparently they are still into taking photos.
Yessir- the trick is to let other idiots do the breeding for you. You do cool stuff during the day (dealing out justice with an avuncular backhand if need be), load them up with red cordial and leave. Let the long-suffering parents deal with the children's temper tantrums and red vomit.
This is probably the theory I had in mind as, years ago, I signed up to do Primary School Teaching when I went to university ( despite the common belief that I flunked high school)
It did not go well.
I lasted a year.
Apparently when you take 20 kids to the pool while you're doing your rounds the school wants ALL OF THEM BACK. To me having at least 18 kids come back alive is still a "pretty good day". Parents/ teachers/ the Law do not. A 90% success(sic) rate is frowned upon, even if the kids were unpopular and got bad grades.
What I don't get though is that some people don't like kids. At all. Loathe them. Reminds them of the little shits that they once were- stealing police vehicles, graffiting obscenities, finding the occasional dead body and poking it's intestines with a stick with morbid wonderment. To these folk kids are weird. They just appear from rows and rows of a Nebraskan corn field one day or a village like Midwich, white-haired/ glowing eyed/ possess a telepathic link to each other/ can kill people with thought alone. They see these kids as annoying leeches that scream in movie theatres and constantly break dishes until one day they get abducted by an insane chocolatier.
Still, with all these weddings that I'm going to, it won't be long before I hear the pitter-patter of webbed feet and decades of uncomfortable questions ('When was the last time you got laid Uncle Fatman?', 'Why do you always smell of tinkle?' etc.)
Now, get out of my house!