An Exhortation
Don’t marry. You’ll always wonder what might have been and there will always be someone to blame.
For the same reason, don’t have kids.
Now you’re thinking smarmily to yourself, Well, hotshot, if somebody didn’t do just that you wouldn’t be typing these words at all. Well, you’re right, but 1) I had no say in the circumstances that produced me, or whether I got produced at all; 2) I’m not sure it was an entirely good idea; and 3) If it hadn’t happened, it’s not like I’d know I was missing out on anything. I’m not silly enough to think my existence — let alone this blog — is of critical importance to the world. That is, my occasional need to continue to exist does not assume the world ever needed me to exist at all. (I do figure since I’m here I might as well make a contribution.) Existence and parenting are not for everyone, and if you don’t make babies — well, it’s not like they’ll know they’re missing anything. Just because they can’t thank you from across the void of non-existence doesn’t mean they wouldn’t want to. So if you do decide to have kids, don’t pretend you’re doing them any favors. Reproduction — intentional reproduction, anyway — is an affirmation of self and nothing else. It can be a cheap shot at immortality, an attempt to relive lost dreams or glory days, or even an attempt to prove that you could raise kids without repeating your parents’ mistakes. But if you decide to have kids, understand that it is about you; maybe that’s why the price of parenting is so much of your own life. Gratifying the self that much doesn’t come cheap. Whether it’s long colicky nights or screaming matches 20 years after you started patting yourself on the back for a job well done, you will have to face the same self-denial as the most austere of ascetics. That austerity should be one of your primary considerations. Go to Little League games. Sit with screaming 9-year-olds at a birthday party. Skip a few random days at work and see what your boss thinks of you afterward. Try to confront a clumsy 5-year-old without feeling the urge to tip a piece of furniture on top of her. If the prospect of facing such situations leaves you squeamish, uneasy, or impatient, don’t do it. Don’t have kids.
Marriage and family make selfishness so tempting and blame so easy. There’s always somebody in the house who deserves your ire. In singlehood you choose your company, your activities, even your work. You have very few real moral responsibilities. And when such things are a matter of choice, dedication comes naturally, sans resentment. You only resent that which is imposed upon you by choice or circumstance. You resent Lumberg asking for yet another Saturday at the office but you wouldn’t be violating a sacred trust if you quit. Not so with marriage or child-rearing. And before long your regret festers into resentment and maybe even hatred; you will be haunted constantly by the decisions you made, the roads you lost, the demands born of those decisions. You took the road well-traveled and still managed to miss the warning signs, forget the pitfalls and lurking dangers and weariness of that beaten track. Somehow at the beginning the road seemed as appealing to you as it had to every traveler who preceded you, before the great shrubs parted and the trees fell bare and the road wound endlessly into rocky, rutted, muddy oblivion.
Don’t marry. Don’t have kids. Listen. Someday you’ll thank me.
