The interesting thing about my house, I’ve realized, is that while no children actually live here (except those of the crazy, mangy mutt and the 29-to-30-something-I-don’t-wanna-grow-up varieties), it’s shockingly child-friendly.

I mean, okay.  Kids have to stay out of my office.  Period.  There are dangerous things like books on shelves and a fancy new computer and god forbid anyone but me spills red wine on my spankin’ white desks, and yes, there’s a good chance if you bring your kid here, he might accidentally find himself with a sippy cupful of wine or I mean grape juice with a splash of wine, and that’s only if he’s being a pain in the ass.

And that’s what we’d call a Sippy-cup ‘Tini.

Not that I would ever do that.

Ever.

But sometimes when I see a screaming kid at the grocery store, I’d think of how much easier Mom’s life would be if she carried a flask.  For many reasons.

Don’t look at me like that.

In the early 1900’s, we used to give kids cocaine for toothaches.  And really, I’m not sure why we don’t anymore, because they’d all probably be a lot more fun and grow up to epitomize groundbreaking music genres and write thought-invoking lyrics and die before their time.

Wait, maybe that was heroine.  Which actually used to be sold as a cough suppressant.

And probably not such a good thing.

Except the music.  You can’t really argue that Come As You Are wasn’t a good thing.  A very good thing.

Right, Martha?

Anyway.  As I was saying, as long as the mangy mutts are locked in one bedroom and the office door remains closed and the so-called “grown-up” inhabitants of the casa refrain from giving alcohol to minors, what’s left is approximately 1,300 square feet of veritable playground for the age-impaired.  Well, maybe 1,200 square feet.  Because I’m pretty sure kids shouldn’t play in bathrooms.  Or the fireplace hearth.  So let’s make it an even 1,197 square feet of pure fun.  Which, I think, would more than suffice.

Most of the flooring in that remaining square footage is laminate, which, despite its solid-state appearance, is actually quite kid-friendly cushy as well.  Many a child has stumbled across its slick surface, been told to “brush it off,” and survived to play another day.

Also, it’s quite easy to clean.  Which was exceptionally put to the test this past weekend when my friend’s crazy adorable baby went all Exorcist on us and projectile-vomited everywhere.  Which was awesome and scary all at the same time.  And it made me really, really happy we chose laminate as our primary walking/vomiting surface.  (**Update: I spoke with my friend. She knows I love her. AND her baby. Like… I would throw myself in front of a biscuit-tube throwing Sponge Bob for that baby. So no, she knows I was not speaking ill of her baby while writing those last sentences. Her baby was ill, but I was not speaking ill. Got it? Thank you.)

So.  While situations in which friends with babies are hanging out with friends without babies usually leads to apologies from the friends with babies and feelings of inadequacy from the friends without babies, I want all of my friends with babies to know that it’s okay to take them to my house.  And that, while I’m not positive I want any of my own, I don’t want you to feel weird about exposing yours to me and my childless home.  Because I have laminate.  And microfiber.  And sippy-cup ‘tinis if you’re feeling especially distraught.

For you, not your kid.

Which is why I should be your favorite childless person.

But you’ll have to provide the sippy cups, because I don’t have those, for obvious reasons.  Although maybe I should, because I’ve been known to spill a lovely glass of red all over my new rug, and — oh, wow.  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?  Sippy-cup wine glasses.  For grown-ups who aren’t quite grown up.  They’re sippy-cups with stems, people.  Don’t steal that.  It’s MINE.

Anyway.  I think what I’ve been trying to say is that I’d like to bridge this gap that inevitably forms when some friends from a group choose to have kids and others stubbornly remain child-free.  Just because kids don’t get me doesn’t mean we can’t hang.  And while I might try to talk to them about politics or religion or why Desperate Housewives is so insanely idiotic yet I still watch it, I think this is a good thing when it comes to expanding young minds.  I might ask them about the books they’re reading and then tell them about the books I’m reading, and then after I’ve bored them into a zombie-like stupor, all of us “grown-ups” can pour ourselves some sippy-tinis and call this a parenting job well-done.

It’s like I was made for this sort of thing.

Plus, I know the human head weighs 8 pounds.  Yep.  I’ve watched Jerry Maguire.  I know how this works.

P.S. I’m too late.

P.P.S. If anyone wants to buy me one of these if I ever find myself on the “with-child” side of the family spectrum, I can’t say I wouldn’t love it: