Photograph by Popperfoto / Getty

It is difficult for me to refrain from making helicopter noises around your friends and their kids.

My feelings are always clear from my face, I do not like any Disney princesses, and I’ve been listening to “Lemonade” a lot lately.

I cannot guarantee that after three glasses of wine I won’t begin rating the attendees based on “projected future hotness.”

It is impossible to find an Instagram filter that flatters me but does not turn your child into a noseless, washed-out ghost.

I am not convinced that your bathroom door now firmly locks, or that your dad really was sorry.

Your partner is still annoyed that I announced, “Oh, my God, I love Trader Joe’s!” when I saw the appetizer selection at your last party.

I already have all the material I need for my upcoming one-woman show, “Happy to Die Alone_._”

None of the kids ever ask me if my marathon time has improved, even after I mention all of the training I’ve been doing.

I forgot your mom’s first name a long time ago, and, every year, she keeps insisting more adamantly that I shouldn’t call her “Mrs. Hansen” anymore.

You told me that it wasn’t funny to sort the children into tetherball teams based on their names (so much for Team Dead Aunts, Team Cow Names, and Team Overrated Authors).

It’s probably best if I don’t run into Parker’s mother after the Go-Ahead-and-Expand-Your-Palate-Beyond-All-White-Foods-by-Trying-Some-Ketchup Incident of three years ago. Again, I was unaware that it was an allergy situation, not a life-style choice.

I stand by the statement “Really? Thirty-five dollars to jump on a trampoline for twenty minutes?”

When I was a kid, my drunk uncle told me that crepe paper was made from dyed strips of Babar’s skin. I can’t shake the image.

The potholder loom I gave your child last year earned only a tepid thank-you note.

The whole “We really should save the cake corners for the kids, though” thing.