Redheaded Jill

I have a confession. I think I have been living a lie. I am one of seven children. (Though none of us are children any longer.) I have always been surrounded by kids. I have been a nanny. I have been a para. I have been a teacher. I have babysat for friends. I have loved on, cuddled, and rocked babies of all my friends and even some strangers. People know me and think of me as, “That girl who loves kids.”

I need to make a correction.

I love babies.

Babies and some toddlers.

Babies, toddlers, and some young kids.

Babies, toddlers, some young kids, and a few youths who are the children of my friends or family.

But once a kid, especially a strangers kid, reaches about 7 or 8 they lose me. Not because I hate them. Not because they’re bad. But because it’s no longer as fun for me. Older kids play rough. Older kids get an attitude. Older kids don’t find my games fun anymore.

I like cuddles. I like bedtime and rocking babies for naps. I like reading books and watching movies in our pajamas and playing in the sprinkler. I like hanging with the babies.

Older kids have friends. Older kids socialize. Older kids like to play with other kids. And that is exhausting.

Older kids, frankly, get pretty obnoxious.

Are there exceptions to the rule? Yes.

Will I be nice and polite and agreeable to these older kids? Yes.

Do I seek out the company of, or long to teach/hang out with/babysit older kids?

No. No, I really don’t. So the next time someone says, “Oh yeah! Regan loves kids.” I’m going to correct them and say, “Sometimes… Regan likes kids sometimes. But Regan loves babies.”

There’s a reason I avoid substitute teaching kindergarten through fifth grade y’all… There’s a reason.