As the work-at-home mom type person, I have become quite the hostess. Granted, not for cocktail parties, holiday dinners, or any gathering involving guests over the age of ten. No, my area of expertise is play dates.

 Play dates and sleepovers at our house tend to follow the same loose pattern. I pick up as many children after school as our mini-van can hold. Note to designers: there is nothing “mini” about a vehicle that easily seats seven easily. A real “mini” treat for mom would be something in the two-seater, possibly convertible category. THAT is a car a mom could have some fun in. But I digress. 

Starved. We then proceed to our home where the van will disgorge a clamoring herd of starving children onto the lawn. They will proceed in an orderly fashion into the house – just kidding. That was a good one. They will proceed into the house like a chaotic gaggle of puppies gamboling and tripping over each other, finally coming to rest en masse in front of our refrigerator.  

Being the savvy and oh-so-together type mom that I am, I have of course stocked our refrigerator in anticipation of this play date. There the children will find a plethora of healthy fruits and vegetables, perhaps some yogurt, to choose from. 

Ha. Another funny. But that WOULD be a good idea wouldn’t it?

Less. No, I’d rather take the road less traveled. That’s the road where the children try desperately to cobble together some nourishment from a half-sleeve of saltines and the quarter cup of sugar frosted something or other left in the bottom of the cereal box.  

With this they also get water. Hey, I’m not cruel. 

I then tell the children to go somewhere, anywhere, but in my kitchen. They can go to the bedrooms, playroom, or even outside. We have a lovely creek just perfect for falling in, tall trees to become stuck in, sharp sticks to run with, and a trampoline for all those craving some ER adventure.  

As you can imagine, our house is QUITE in demand socially. 

Now, there is always that one Mom who is the play date Master. When you pick up your kid at her house she tells you;

“Oh, they had a great time. First we drafted a proposal for the UN peace accord, then just a few arts and crafts where the girls made a water treatment test plant out of recycled foam cups, and then – this is so cute – the girls put together a little musical sketch while I whipped together some homemade costumes to help them along.”

After I host a play date, I inform the play date guest parents thus;

“Oh, the kids had a great time. At least it sounded like they did. I was in my office with the door closed trying to write more articles about what a stellar parent I am and listening to Van Morrison. From what I could hear they did a lot of jumping around outside for a while which ended, as I predicted, with someone crying. So then they watched TV in the playroom. I think they put in a DVD which may have been educational but could have been an old Jane Fonda workout video for all I know. Then, when that was over, they went outside to run in circles and chase each other with sticks again. Oh, and they ate saltine crackers and doughnuts.”

You would think I would be hopelessly unpopular as a social pariah play date mom but curiously; I’m quite in demand.

Space. I think it’s because rather than hover over the children micro-managing their every move and trying to force feed them carrot sticks, I give them what children of a certain age really crave: space. 

Well space, and jumping with sharp pointy sticks.

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There’s no way of saying this without sounding like either a self-righteous health nut or a sadistic child hater - and I’m still somewhat on the fence over which is worse.

Nonetheless, I think I have cracked the case on the alarming rise in childhood obesity. Apparently, my peers and I have somehow managed to birth an entire generation that can’t go more than 45 minutes without eating.

 My generation will take the hit for a variety of offenses including, but not limited to parachute pants, Michael Jackson having a hit record, and The Smurfs.

However, I honestly don’t recall endless snacking in my own childhood. Somehow my mother managed to ferry me quite nicely through childhood without constant infusions of tiny bear-shaped crackers, dry cereal, cheese sticks and a variety of juices to sustain me.

How an age group that was able to survive their own childhoods seemingly able to subsist for days on nothing more than bubble gum, the occasional Cheeto, and pure air, managed to allow their own offspring to get so snack-addicted is beyond me.

Yet today, even as we encourage children to be active and “just do it,” we replace tenfold any calories they might actually burn by pressing snacks into their hands almost before they’ve left the field.

Schedule. If you’ve ever had a child who has played any sport, you know what a “snack parent” is. The dates of play - and often practice - are listed and you are duly informed that on one of those chosen dates, it will be your responsibility to provide all the young athletes their post-game refreshments.

Missing your child’s game is bad. Missing a game when you are the snack parent is unconscionable. The idea that healthy children could survive for an hour or two completely without a snack is completely out of the question.

The call-to-duty is a heady one. Apparently, our nation’s children derive nearly all their sustenance from the scraps of food they can cadge after various little league and pee-wee practices.

Seriously, is this snack thing as out of hand where you live?  

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