Parenthood

Parenting certainly has taken a dive these past few years. I look at the next generation of kids coming into adulthood, and with a few notable exceptions I don’t see much to recommend it over mine. (For that matter, I don’t see much in mine to recommend it over the previous one). What happened? Did parents start to suck worse? And who is to blame?

On the last two, here are my answers; yes, and look in a mirror.

These days, children are raised by impersonal media sources. They get their education from television, the Internet, magazines and their companions (who likely got theirs from the aforementioned sources). Parents would rather let their kids vegetate in front of World of Warcraft or American Idol than spend the time to get to know them; after all, parenting is hard work, a full-time job that does not pay. And, unless they are unbelievably lucky, said parents have to have another job to pay all the bills.

Now, I’ve never been a parent. But an experience I had when I was young forever shaped my view of child-rearing. When I was about thirteen, hunting pigeons in my dad’s warehouse, I came across a motherless squab (baby pigeon). I wasn’t hard-hearted enough to kill it, so instead I took it home and endeavored to raise it. (The fact that it was probably motherless due to my pellet gun was an irony I would not fully appreciate until adulthood.) My parents allowed me to, on the condition that I do the work. And holy crap, was it work.

Baby birds, for those of you who don’t know, need to eat about once every forty-five minutes. Good thing it was summertime or I’d never have managed it. Still, I had to take this small, delicate, helpless creature everywhere I went, endure its constant peeping for food and attention, endure occasional mockery from the other kids, and constantly wash bird shit out of my clothes. He got sick; I worried, powerless, until he got better. Once the little peeper crawled out of the portable “nest” I had built and I spent thirty frantic minutes looking for him.

But the little guy grew up and fledged; I remember teaching him to fly, or trying to (birds do fly instinctively but need a little push in the right direction; I guess defying gravity is nerve-racking even if evolution equipped you for it). I recall bursting with pride when he did finally figure it out. I figured he’d fly off and make a life for himself or something.

But that wasn’t the end of the story. The little guy (I named him Peavy, after the log-turning tool I’d found him under…don’t ask me why) didn’t want to go. He hung around the house, and as winter approached my dad and I took out a window in my room and replaced it with a wooden box and door; so he could have some shelter and come into my room if he wished. It made my room a good deal colder, but I didn’t mind. He’d come in while I was doing my homework, coo softly and beak my hair. Occasionally, he’d crap on me (pigeons aren’t really careful about where they drop their load, though he became more conscientious after a while). At dinner time, he’d sit on the table next to my plate and pick bits of food off my fork. He even followed me to school one day and sat on the windowsill of my classroom (much to the interest of the other kids, and for one glorious day I was the coolest kid in class).

I could go on, but I think you get the idea; Peavy became a part of our family. Even my parents enjoyed having him around. I loved having a pet that was so attached to me. So, imagine my utter shock and horror when Peavy was eaten by a red-tailed hawk less than twenty feet from me one cold January day. I still miss him.

As I grew up, the metaphor for parenting was inescapable. Infants are helpless and require constant care; constant care means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not”. They get sick, and you have no idea how to help, and have to frantically research childhood ailments or place a panicked call to the local doctor to find out what to do. Often, you take them to the doctor and wait, powerless and scared, until a stranger pronounces your offspring healthy again. Or they won’t, and you’ll suffer a lifetime of guilt wondering what you could have done differently.

They grow up, and you have to teach them things you barely understand yourself. You have moments of bursting pride when they learn. You have moments of aggravation when they don’t. They make messes and break things (Peavy ruined more than one dinner by shitting in it, until my mother banned him from the kitchen). They cause you to have to completely readjust your life. And sometimes, despite all your hard work, love and endless care, God or Fate deals them a bum card and they are snatched from you anyhow. And I can only imagine the complex horror of watching them grow up to be someone you don’t actually like.

I looked at my experience with Peavy, and asked myself; did I want to go through a similar experience with a child of my own blood? The answer was, and still is, a most emphatic hell no. I think everyone should have to do what I did if they want to raise a child (more detail on this in another entry).

A lot of people who decide to be parents don’t understand the level of total commitment being a good one requires. As I said before, “total” means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not, whether it’s convenient or not, whether it’s cool or not”. You never truly take a break from being a mother or a father. You can desert your duty, but it will forever remain an unfinished piece of business with your name on it. I think that’s why there are so many shitty parents in this world; because parenting is hard fucking work with no clear right answers. And that’s why we’re all to blame for it.

Society just doesn’t respect parents. Are there any sitcoms depicting happy, well adjusted families? Not in my experience. We’d rather watch shows about families more fucked up than ours because it makes us feel better than observe those that are more stable and take lessons. Women would rather keep their girlish figures than grow great with child (and considering the prevailing attitudes on female beauty and its importance, I can’t be too angry with them). Men would rather go drink with their friends and play Xbox than take kids to the park or change diapers (and again, considering the values of our time I don’t blame them either). For those who do it, and do it well, I heartily salute you.

But just because it’s hard does not mean parents should get a free pass or any sympathy for screwing it up. Theirs is the most important job there is; preparing the next generation for survival and prosperity in a cruel, unjust, and fucked-up world. It’s an awesome responsibility, the level of which should be self-evident to anyone with an IQ greater than a freeway speed limit but, sadly, it doesn’t seem to be.

So all you parents, get out there and learn; do not allow others to take up this most sacred of tasks on your behalf unless you wish to part with your offspring. If you’re not ready, condoms are free, birth control is readily available, and if those don’t appeal watch porn and scratch your biochemical itch all by your lonesome. I’ve been a very sexually active male for almost a decade and a half, and I have never knocked someone up so I know it’s possible. And if you already have made a boo-boo and don’t want to be a parent, put your child up for adoption and be smarter next time. I’m not joking; there are plenty of people out there who were cursed with infertility who’d love a shot at child rearing.

In other words, do not take it lightly. A baby is not a toy that stays warm and makes cute noises; it is a *life*. And *you* are responsible for its care and development. So, roll up your sleeves and get to work. We, as your fellow humans, are counting on you, and so is the next generation.