Because I'm going to share a bit of wisdom now, something I apparently know so well it puts me on the brink of neurosis, and something that at least thirty percent of the population has forgotten.
Are you ready for this astounding bit of knowledge? Are you sure?
The play place doesn't come with a babysitter. Unless you've actually employed a child to go in there and watch your little monsters, if you don't go in and watch them, no one is. They are unfettered, free, and beating the ever living day lights out of each other. That lady in the corner holding up a tray like a shield? She's supposed to be cleaning tables, but she's afraid to move. She's not child care.
Don't take this moment to tell me how good your kid is. Because, sans supervision, every one of them is Kevin McCallister.
I'll wait while you Google that.
Got it? Okay, let's move on.
So say you take Johnny to the local burger shack, and you want to sit outside the plastic enclosure and read a magazine or text your bestie or whatever, and your child wants to amble around said hamster cage prior to his nap, you should stop what you are doing now and again, and make sure he's still breathing.
Now, if you want to travel as a pack with forty or fifty OTHER women who have been trapped in their houses with their two or three miniature angels a piece for a week or more, and then unleash these heavenly creatures in a stampeding, destructive tornado into a tiny hamster cage with a neon yellow slide and brightly colored steps, well, let's just say a grown up should sit in the damn hamster cage, and watch the offspring.
Take turns, girls, or hire a sitter, please? Because personally, I'm tired of bringing MY angels to the local hamster cage to have a run, only to have to referee a steal cage match between two children I've never even met, while their moms sit outside discussing the latest deal they've gotten on some swag from another country, picking at their salads and stealing their kids fries, totally oblivious to the fact that their child has just broken another child's finger.
Or at least buy me a milkshake instead of giving me crappy looks after I tell your kid that bloodshed belongs in your backyard and not in public where it can be misconstrued as ketchup.