I do media relations for a living, and a query that came across the desk today was from a national parenting publication. The subject: "playdates." I never heard the term before my grandsons were born, and now I hear about "playdates" all the time. There's something inherently wrong about making a date to play. Playtime is spontaneous, unplanned, devil-may-care and past your bedtime. Playtime can mean something will get broken, like a window with a golf ball, or that Barbie's bangs will be sheared to the roots. And a date? That's something planned and calm, like dinner with candles, a darkened movie theater or maybe the opera or a nice walk along the river. A date is what leads to playtime, I suppose, or is it vice-versa? Hmmm. You tell me. But this whole "playdate" business sounds suburban and snooty to me. It just screams "Woodbury!"
And screaming (ya like that segway?) is just what this young and innocent couple from Minneapolis will get used to when their six new little babies hang in there. Good luck, Morrisons. More than that, actually: I'm praying for those little guys. They're your beautiful little miracles. And I want you to have, well, playdates.