Is it me, or do people have a total misunderstanding of what a godparent is supposed to be? The last time I checked, I signed on to be responsible for the spiritual well-being of your child, especially if by some horrible stroke of fate, you are no longer around during your kid’s formative years. Nowhere in my godmother handbook did it say that I was a pseudo-parent, responsible financially but reaping none of the benefits.
Who made it a prerequisite that I had to be gainfully employed enough to throw your child’s sixth birthday party on the off-chance that you get fired two months before “the big day.” I didn’t curse out my boss because he docked my pay because I was late four times this week. Wait. Let me back up. My own kid isn’t having a sixth birthday party. It’s not even a number divisible by five, and what kid really needs a spectacular blow out every year anyway? He is cute, but did he cure cancer? Is he leading the next big march on Washington? Let’s be real. Nobody’s going all out for my 31st this year, so why would I want to set your kid up for some unrealistic expectation of a yearly celebration based on a fairly primitive womb-emerging tradition. Buy a pack of hot-dogs and a box of cake mix. That’s what I’m doing. If my kids can feel the belt-tightening around here, so can yours around there.
And don’t go for the “you know the importance of a quality education because you’re a teacher” bit either. Yes, I do know the importance of it, and I really do care if your kid can multiply and divide with the best of them, but you signed up for that posh private school that you knew you couldn’t afford when you completed the registration process. With private schools come tuition, uniforms, fees, fundraisers, and other randomness that the administrators and PTAs dream up to bleed parents dry. I have my own kids to educate until they’re old enough to attend the neighborhood PUBLIC school. And don’t even think about asking me for the extra cash I’ll have then. I’m planning on using that money to buy myself something nice, like full coverage car insurance and lipstick that didn’t come from the clearance bin at Walgreens.
And before you ask, NO, I don’t want to “spend time” with my godson while you and your husband go to the Caribbean for three weeks. I have a hard enough time spending time with my own kids with all the WORKING I’m doing. How dare you even ask me something like that, anyway? The last “vacation” I went on was to a funeral in St. Louis. I’ll have to feed, bathe, transport, and nurture your kid for the oh-so-generous gift of a t-shirt I could have bought from Hot Topic myself at the mall. Then I’ll have to suffer through all the pictures of you in a bikini posing next to the locals you’ve exploited by promising to buy that necklace or beach bag you knew you didn’t have enough money to purchase when you convinced them to “say ‘cheese.’” I respectfully decline, thank you very much.
What really kills me, though, is how you never offered to share that tax refund you “earned” after you were able to deduct all the tuition I paid for. No, I don’t want or need your money, but please don’t go around bragging about that new car you were able to purchase because you finally had enough money for a decent down payment. All of my charitable contributions over the last 12 months played a major role in your financial success. I’m the fool, though, because I know that I paid for that Gucci bag you knew I’ve been eyeballing futilely for the last couple of months.
I’m not jealous or mad. Really, I’m not. I love you and your son tremendously. I just want you to know that I am no longer going to allow myself to be pimped by you. I am officially off that corner, never to return. If my godson needs a new Bible, some holy water, or an exorcism, give me a call.