reasons to bother with kids

Maclean’s published an article some time ago entitled “The Case Against Kids”. As anyone with or without kids is well aware, this is not a difficult case to make. The article opens with a warning you that “they can hurt your career, your marriage, your social life and your bank book!”

Of course, most everyone reads this and says WELL, DUH.

So why bother, as the article asks?

Let me back up a bit first, and tell you about why we bothered to give it a try. See, unlike the people interviewed by Macleans, John and I never really thought that hard about parenting before we did it. We’d heard about how it sabotaged your sex life and caused you unending stress and grief and naturally, we thought NOT US! NUH UH! We just assumed that it would be fun to have a kid, and all those naysayers were a bunch of Debbie Downers! I mean, we’re fun! We would just carry on like we always had, but bring the kid along! Kind of like a dog, but one who doesn’t shed! Again, fun!

So we went ahead and had a kid and you know, it was a long while before we used the word FUN in conjunction with parenthood again. We used lots of other descriptive words, but I won’t share them because I have pregnant friends reading and I don’t want to scare them.

You see, it’s probably a good thing that we didn’t stop to think about it too hard, because we might not have done it.

The naysayers are right: parenthood wreaks havoc on your personal, professional, and financial life.

But here’s the catch.

Perhaps I’m just speaking for myself here, but when it’s your own kid, you don’t really care.

For the most part, of course.

I admit that when I first became a parent, I cared. I cared a lot. I went through a period of mourning for my old life. Sure, I loved my kid, but I really remembered the good times wistfully. A hot sunny day at the beach, without worrying about anyone else getting burnt or eating sand. Leaving the house without a diaper bag twice as big as what you got you through 6 months in Thailand. Sleeping in on a Sunday.

But then, slowly but surely, I just didn’t care any more (well, except for the sleeping in on Sunday part, okay?). Once I got over the shock of becoming a mother, things started to look up. I took more pleasure from watching my baby explore the feeling of grass in his toes than I would from a night on the town, any time. And right now, I may not have bought one new pair of shoes for myself since Callum was born, but we are squirreling away some cash to buy him a shiny new trike for his second birthday. And I’m not saying that to be a martyr. I would rather he have the trike any day. I mean that.

So yeah, parenthood is a gradual but definite slippery slope into the kind of existence that Macleans warns you about. Humming the Sesame Street theme and calling your partner “Daddy” are just the beginning. You try to fight it but there you are writing things like “SOMEONE PEE-PEED IN THE POTTY!” as your facebook status, inciting Olympic-calibre eye-rolling from your childless friends (no, I have not done this yet, but then again, Callum has yet to PEE-PEE IN THE POTTY). As the months go by your bedtime slowly creeps into the single digits, to the point where one day you receive a dinner party invitation for eight o’clock on a Friday, and you and your partner look at each other in alarm. “Are they European or something?” you ask each other. Come to think of it, the warning that “they can hurt your career, your marriage, your social life and your bank book!” doesn’t really scare me in the face of all that other stuff.

So there you have it: one day the childless you becomes that person. That person, covered in spit up and with bags under their eyes, discussing strollers instead of politics, who embodies the antithesis of the child-free movement.

Don’t become that person! the child-free advocates tell you. You don’t want that!

Well, let me sell you a different perspective.

This morning I was spying on Callum. He was in his room playing quietly with my pajama top. He would stop periodically to bury his face in it and sigh, with all the satisfaction of a sommelier sampling a ’97 Amarone, “Mmmmmm Mama.”

They say no kids, no grief, but no kids also means none of that.

Wait! I just realized that I write lists of five here, and I’ve rambled on far past my quota already, so as for my five official reasons to bother with kids, I’ll leave it at this:

If I haven’t made my case yet, here are five final reasons to bother. They’ll get you every time.

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