"playa hater."

For some reason I started thinking about these two boys I used to babysit. They were in third and fifth grade (or second and fourth, I don't remember anymore) and they always ate Frito pies. I mean EVERY DAY. I babysat these kids for a summer for about 4 weeks at time and their mom told me every day that this is what they would eat, in some variation. Sometimes they'd add hot dogs and take way Fritos. Etc. Etc. They'd put the cans of beans and meat and sauce into the freezer. I thought it was gross that they left them uncovered, so I covered them up.

The boys hardly went outside. They were preoccupied with their video games. They hated when I stopped their 5-hour binges and suggested that we shoot hoops or play with their puppy or ride their bikes. They'd cry. They were in third and fifth grade and they cried when I suggested we go outside where the sun shined and the air didn't smell of chili.

I eventually became the consummate playa hater. They thought I was out to squash their swagger. The neighborhood kids who came to play video games worshiped these kids, and my suggestions killed their coolness.

Fast forward to these year. I think Aaron would be really OK if all he ate was Frito pies and chili dogs. I worry about becoming a playa hater to him, too. I don't want to get married and all of a sudden become this awful woman who keeps him from doing the things he wants to do. I'm eager and anxious (thanks, Dow Jonesies) to find that balance. Watching "16 and Pregnant" on MTV probably doesn't help much, either. All of those guys seem to hate the girls they... well... you know. Fortunately, that's not the situation we're going in to, so I think I have less to worry about.

So, yeah. I don't want to be a playa hater.