This just happened… We just finished a playdate with my kindergartener and her friend, Miri, who plopped down on the couch after an hour, and said to my daughter, “Ooh, Chayale, did you know I went shopping to buy a brand-new gown because my uncle is getting married? It’s pink and it has sparkles and it’s a real princess dress.”

Miri’s uncle is dating my sister. They went out once.

Don’t panic, but get Shani Leiman and Sara Eisenmann on the scene stat to put their heads together for some professional guidance. This is well beyond our pay grade.

As far as Miri goes, pump her for all the information she has, and make sure that when she’s over, every member of your family is aware of her (adorably) blabbish tendencies and is acting one thousand percent socially on. Send your tantrumming toddler out if you must, but decorum must prevail.

My son’s a real boy’s boy, not a kid who notices when he loses a fingernail or bruises a bone.

His best friend makes him look like a softie — I’ve seen him fall out of a tree and jump back up, laughing. Today, this kid hit a grand slam and slid home, and his black-on-black Tiros, that he earned with five months of shnayim mikrah, got a four-inch tear, leaving some serious road rash on his leg. I’ve been begging him to ice it for ten minutes, while he says “Ice what?” as blood slowly and steadily drips down his leg. Do I sew them up quickly before his mother comes or let him face the judgment?

Okay, rock and a hard place. We commiserate. On the one hand, it’s not your job to sew up some other kids’ pants to avoid the fallout of a (presumably) uptight mother. On the other hand, if you sew up the pants, that will very effectively hide the blood, and if you can’t see it, it never happened.

I don’t need to check the time when I have my daughter’s friend over for a playdate, because I can set my watch by her asking “C’I have a nooooosh” every three minutes. Every. Three. Minutes.

I’ll do anything to escape the neverending begging: Laundry? Sure. Scrubbing that gross line of greasy dirt between my oven and counter? Gladly. I was fixing a flat bike tire in the garage and guess who found me there. Little Miss Needy. How do I let the mother know that she did a bad job instilling a reasonable sense of what’s annoying in her five-year-old?

Use the clock to your advantage. You know when the next kvetch is coming. Whip out your phone and film a highlight reel of her best moments. Add a few genuinely cute moments as a red herring (and your exit strategy). Then send, captioned “THESE CUTIES!!” and hope the mom works it out.

Also good to note: If you’re getting pictures and videos of your cutie at someone else’s playdate, consider the subtext.

There she is: standing in her full face of makeup and heels on a weekday, looking down her perfect nose at the lived-in clutter that is my living room. I wish I could blame it on her kid, but but it’s been like this since before she dropped her off. Who am I kidding, it’s been like this since Shabbos.

When her perfect little Rosie (not perfect, by the way, I could tell you stories) runs to the door holding the fruit roll up flowers the girls made, she gasps dramatically and says “Wow, Rosie! You’re soooooo lucky!” and then adds, “Candy in our house is only a Shabbos Mevarechim treat” with a completely straight face. I’m not sure how I made it through her vetting system, and my question is, how do I get flagged and removed?

Few people know this universal rule: The judgier the moms, the more you have to judge about their kids. Power through the shame and realize she’s probably smiling but you can’t tell with all the Botox. Up the antics next time if you really want to be added to the black list. We suggest anything involving slime and/or glitter.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 767)