Okay, I know my previous baby rant may have led you to assume that I’m one of those “baby haters”, but hear me out. I like children. As a matter of fact, the children that are in my life; nephews, nieces, the sons and daughters of close friends, are all wonderful and unique individuals, and I have nothing but fondness and affection for all of them. Heck, if their guts were on fire, I would piss down their throats. (aww shucks, t’werent nothin’) And upon careful introspection, I realize it’s not babies I have this disdain for…it’s parents!
It’s mind-boggling to see the bizarre metamorphosis normal, intelligent adults go through as soon as that wrinkly shit machine passes through the vaginal gates. You know how in zombie movies, this strange wave of mysterious disease sweeps the land and in a split second healthy, normal corpses suddenly rise up with the singular, obsessive intention of eating your brain? Well, it’s kind of like that.
Gone are the late night discussions with friends on politics, art, Groucho, cheesecake and the classic hilarity of getting hit in the nuts. Instead it’s an endless barrage of the new Daddy and Mommy’s fascination with baby’s weight, breast pumps, lactation cycles, its first crib rollover, its eyes focusing on a grape and the ever increasing fecal weight of the diapers. Eventually the shine comes off the apple. If the new parents have any childless friends, they slowly recede into the vaporous memory fields, never to be seen again. It’s a mutual thing; the baby-less couples get bored with the enormous microscope put on the infant’s every waking flinch, and the Mommies and Daddies push them away fearing, not having any baby experience, their childless friends might do harm to little Kayla. Speaking for myself, I’ve only dropped two babies in my whole life (and one survived). And you can’t count that kid I picked up by sticking my thumb in his soft spot, either. My hands were full of groceries, and I couldn’t very well leave my jug of vodka on the porch, now could I?
And so, Mommy and Daddy circle the wagons and socialize only with other Mommies and Daddies. They feel more secure exchanging scintillating ideas about baby formula, soccer camps and mini-vans. They suddenly realize that their diverse, socially aware life in an urban condo simply won’t do anymore. What about the children?! It’s not safe! And off to the suburbs they go. They pack up the Caravan or the Odyssey or the Sienna or the Sodona and they head off to the safe and secluded confines of some massive drywall monstrosity that’s posing as a home sitting in what used to be, up until a couple of weeks ago, a 200 acre corn field in the middle of nowhere. But they’re safe! (And if they’re really lucky, it’ll be a gated community. You know, to keep out the dark-skinned child rapists.)
They do everything in their misguided power to protect the safety and sanctity of their brood. They build community playgrounds, arrange play dates, keep monitors and security cameras in every room of the house, line the walls of the play rooms with colorful padded, anti-concussion mats and, best of all, to protect the undying souls of the little lieblings, they find religion. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve known; smart, well educated, worldly and sophisticated that have succumbed to the evil siren’s song of the church as soon as they entered parenthood. They went from doing beer bongs, having group sex in hot tubs and reading Henry Miller and Naked Lunch to sitting on their knees in pews reciting the Nicene Creed with the rest of the blathering throng. And all for the souls of the little ones.
And this is the sterile environment wherein the poor children have to try and grow up. Being guided by a bunch of neurotic, scared shitless cornfield dwellers. Fearful lemmings who, if I may say so from an outsider’s viewpoint, don’t know the first thing about raising genuinely healthy children.
Case in point; the over-diagnosing and prescribing of behavioral drugs for kids. This really pisses me off. Anytime a child suddenly acts outside of the norm, and maybe makes life a little messy for the Norman Rockwells of the gated communities, they’re suddenly hauled off to the doctor and diagnosed with ADD or AD HD or DHDDD or they’re down with OPP. Mommy and Daddy can’t handle junior’s outbursts, and shoving pills down his throat is way easier than trying to get at the root of the problem. Never mind how it’s going affect him in the long run. We need harmony now!
Did you know that over 75% of the behavioral stimulants prescribed for kids (Ritalin, Metadate, Methylin, Dextroamphetamine, etc.) manufactured in the world, are given to American boys?!
What does that tell you; that we have a massive behavioral problem in today’s male children? I doubt it. I think it’s more the fact that our boys, being boys, are throwing a Y-chromosomed monkey wrench into Mommy’s and Daddy’s perception of what they thought family life would be.
Break it down; girls, biologically, are caring and thoughtful and nurturing (they’re also psychologically cruel and manipulative, but that’s for another rant). It comes from the days when the women were the child raisers, the gatherers, the matriarchs.
Boys, on the other hand, are physical beasts. They run, they bounce, they rage, they stomp. It comes from a time when the men’s role was to protect the family. To fight off wolves and cougars and other scary things that go bump in the jungle night. They were the hunters. That’s why boys are always making weapons out of stuff. Whatever they can get their hands on; sticks, broom handles, toasters, everything becomes a weapon. Heck, I’ve seen a kid actually chew a baloney sandwich into the shape of a gun and start shooting it at his little brother. It’s in our nature.
But, unfortunately, the nature of boys is too messy. It breaks up the clean, pristine lifestyle the Mommy’s and Daddy’s are trying to orchestrate. After all, they have elaborate schedules for soccer and ballet and music lessons and play dates. A place for everything and everything in its place. And loud, active, energetic boys jumping on the furniture and screaming like Mohicans disrupts the flow. Bring on the kiddie- narcotics.
My Mother and Father raised five boys, of which I am the middle one. A day didn’t go by where we weren’t bloodied, battered and bruised. It got to the point where they simply opened the door in the morning and let us run rampant around the neighborhood all day. We ran and fought and climbed trees and hit each other with sticks and basically exhausted ourselves with mindless physical activity. In the evening Mom and Dad opened the door and got us back into the house for dinner. We didn’t have benzphetamine or methamphetamine. Heck, the closest we got to behavioral stimulants was Count Chocula. I won’t say our boyish deeds didn’t have my parents, especially my Mom, at the end of their emotional rope on certain days. We were wild, sometimes. We were messy. We broke things. But they took it all in good stride. They let us be boys. And all of us, to a man, have grown to become responsible, well adjusted, hard working, loving adults. And not despite of our messy behavior, but because of it.
My other peeve is how the whole world is being altered, genericized and white breaded for the sake of the fucking children. Back in the day, when I needed milk or coffee, I’d trundle off to the market, squeeze in between the carts in the narrow aisles and gather my goods. Now, we build huge mega-grocery stores where you could land a fucking Lear Jet in the frozen food aisle. And along come these ghastly, ten foot wide, Fischer Price designed plastic carts shaped like race cars and fire engines where the kiddies get to pretend they’re driving. So I still have to squeeze in between these mutated Disney golf carts just to get a bag of French Roast. But I know I’m being selfish. Dear God in Heaven, we wouldn’t want our children to get bored in a grocery store, now would we? I’ve got an idea, why don’t we install DVD players into the carts so they can watch Finding Nemo for the four millionth time? We have them everywhere else. Or better yet, a Ferris wheel or playground next to the produce section so the kids can get face painted and have balloon hats made by a clown while Mommy tries to get the best price on a rump roast.
We have child-proof caps and “Baby On Board” signs and V-Chips and Orange Alerts and baby sunscreen. Jesus H., a man can’t even get a good look at Janet Jackson’s nipple-slip during the Super Bowl without a public parental uproar! What’s America coming to?!
I realize raising a family is not easy. I hear it from parents all the time; "It's so difficult having kids. You have no idea how hard it is!" Well you get no sympathy from me. These aren't government issued children. They weren't forced upon you at gunpoint because your name came up in some random baby lottery. They're your choice, whether you planned them or not. And they're your responsibility. I don't go out and buy a new car and then complain how hard it is to keep up and fill with gas. I knew the rules going in.
As for It takes a village to raise a child...screw that. Hillary Clinton should have been gagged for making such a statement. Granted, it does take a support network of family and friends to make sure a child grows up right and walks the straight and narrow. But it seems "the village" is always responsible after the fact. Young couples never come to the village and say, "Hey, we're thinking about having a kid. Want to help us out?" Then we could say "Yeah, sounds great. I'm in." or "Hmmm, maybe you guys should hold off a year or two till you save some money." But no, the village is responsible no matter who's having the baby or under what circumstances.
Many readers with children will say, “Well, how can you have a perspective on the subject, you don’t have kids. You don’t know what it’s like to be a parent.” But I think the reverse is true. I have a perspective on this because I’m childless. I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent? Most of you don’t know what it’s like not to. To have a life of choice. To be able to explore things deeply and intellectually without having to limit or curb yourself. To reach outside of a world consisting of strollers and pre-school and actually live in a world with adults. Because I’m childless my world is wide open, free to anything I might want to explore. Because you have children, your world is safe and closed and small.
And along with your world goes your mind.
I’m Anthony Wood. I’m angry. And my house smells like fried fish.
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