Raise your hand if you like crying babies. Raise your hand if you like the sound of a toddler screaming his head off in a tantrum. How about the smell of poop in a diaper? Having your house and expensive furniture trashed? Waking up at all hours of the night only to be awoken for the day at 6 a.m. by a 2 year old body slamming your head? Cleaning nonstop only to have the house messier than it was before you started? Or surrendering your social calendar at the prime of your life? My guess is that only the severely mentally ill would lift a hand to any of the above.
But, still, you are probably part of the majority population that despite your distaste for the above consequences, has elected to have a child; or maybe you even said f*%!-it and ended up having more than one. God bless you.
So, what gives? Why do so many of us willingly put ourselves in the line of inevitable enemy fire (enemy in this case being a dependent in your house under the age of 21) just so we can earn the title of ‘mom’ or ‘dad’? In my recent months of adapting to being a mom of two instead of just one, I’ve given this topic a lot of thought. The trouble is that the answer is difficult—if not impossible—to articulate.
Sure, there’s the scientific answer: we’re all pre-programmed to procreate and keep our species alive. Men are driven to plant the seed, and women to bear children. But a simple observation of people who jump off of tall buildings for recreation, starve themselves for vanity or abuse substances for pure pleasure, indicates that humankind can easily outsmart our instincts in order to fulfill our desires. Considering that perspective, one would think there would be fewer and fewer people having children, thus more people enjoying freedom, frivolity, and of course sleep. But we all know that’s not the case.
The explanation for this phenomenon goes deeper than science (and it also goes deeper than the historical justification for children: to have them work your land and increase your wealth). I do believe for some it is to secure a legacy. Sure, we want to see our own DNA improve over time and carry on through generations. Many families wish for their surnames to live on. More so, the truth is that we love the punishment. Sticky and smelly as they are, kids enrich our lives, making us better people, more compassionate, nostalgic, youthful, fun and just plain happy.
Unless you are a parent, you’ll never know the true meaning of self-sacrifice, and you’ll never learn how to bend your life in ways you thought were impossible. You’ll also never know what it feels like to be the center of someone’s universe, adored and idolized and loved without question. The moment you become a parent you are initiated into an elite class of human beings who know how to survive, love and multitask. Sure, there are some who fail miserably and get kicked out of the club (I’m talking about the child abusers and neglecters), but for the most part, parents are in a class of their own.
The real tragedy is not the sad state of our bank account when the kids graduate college. It’s the fact that while us parents spend the vast majority of our lives giving both literally and metaphorically everything to our children, eventually, they are going to grow up, move away and find other people (spouses and their own kids) to love more intently than they love us. They are these little treasures that we get to enjoy for a little while, until they just pick up and walk away.
So despite the fact that I’ve traded in my nights out listening to live music for bedtime stories and bubble bath, and my lazy Sunday mornings for 6 a.m. wrestling matches, I really wouldn’t want it any other way. My looks are aging too fast, I drive a flipping mini-van, and the expensive clothing I still insist on buying from Nordstrom sports many a spit-up stain. But when I start to sweat the small stuff, start to lose my cool, I just remind myself: you’re gonna miss this.
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