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I've been thinking a lot about this question. I have three children. I feel fulfilled as a woman, but unfortunately, I'm a man. I was so good at bringing them up I have nothing to say. I am really disappointed that those idiots who didn't know how to bring up their children and never listened to me, as a result, brought up their children.
No civil liberty is so important that it can't be arbitrarily infringed upon in the name of the safety of our children, even if, 98% of the time, it ends up being Uncle John who molests them and not the porn dealer down the street or the gay couple demanding the right to extended health care benefits.
Our children will be better off and happier in the future with the second car we are buying today with our tax rebate than they would be with safe schools, bridges that don't collapse, and trees.
It is important to expose your children to important artists, musicians, and film-makers when they are young, because when they get older, they want to know what not to do in order to establish that they are their own persons.
Children will adore Buster Keaton if you make them watch ten minutes of any of his films. Children assume you had sex once, or maybe twice if they are not as old as your marriage. Watching a gaggle of giggling adolescents awkwardly maneuvering around each other at a school party makes me wonder where all the promiscuous ones I keep hearing about are.
Nothing is more boring than bragging about your children. Tell me about yourself instead. Zzzz.
The worst thing about kids is this: if life seems shitty to them at 21, it really does look like the absolute end of the world. They can't imagine why a 45-year-old would sell his soul to Satan himself to be 21 again. They can't believe life could be a hell of a lot better in five days, let alone five years.
They have no idea why anyone would bother with foreplay.
They consider themselves so entertaining they are surprised you don't want to pay them to be around, but they're essentially right.
What most amazes me: there are 365*24 hours in a year. 8700 hours a year. When I was first married, it seemed like I had about 4000 of those hours to write and think and play and have sex, without interruption. Now, I have exactly 3 hours and 14 minutes a year, and I think they're home.
Is it worth having kids? I'm with Steve Forbert whom I have often quoted even though Mark thinks he's a weasel: "I know that life is strange, but compared to what?".
Copyright © 2001 Bill Van Dyk All rights reserved.
