November 29, 2010

• Leslie Neilson is dead.

  
  illustration by Belinda Chen

  I spent the better (or longer) part of yesterday at a birthday party for a one year old. The miniature human in question is soon to be my niece and she's awfully adorable. That said, I am firmly against throwing parties for anyone under the age of three. It's a whole lot of fuss and expense for someone who couldn't care less. You may as well have a party for the dog. (And yes, I am aware some do.)

  On Saturday I met my boyfriend at a shop in the neighbourhood that deals in educational and unique children's toys. It was interesting, filled with cool-looking puppets and one-eyed robot recorders to relay messages (awesome), but it was horrible, too. Breeding in the new millennium really brings out the douchebag in people. Having kids used to be normal - almost banal - everyone did it and that was that. Then the feminists introduced the idea that children were a choice and not an obligation. Up to that point I'm still on board. But somewhere in the last ten years things took an ugly turn.

  The pendulum swung way back and now, suddenly, parenthood has taken the tint of a sainted mission - the spawn of these parent proselytes untouchable angels. Every day I see young, capable women walking around with holier-than-though expressions wheeling giant strollers in the way of every pedestrian on the street; it would be too ugly to ask them to take up less space. Their toddlers stand on the streetcar seats with filthy shoes; in the video store they pay no attention as tiny unruly gods peel random tags off the merchandise. They hand me the covers of DVDs plucked off the shelves by little hands so I can put them away. There is never a word of rebuke because, after all, the precious little poppets are expressing themselves. They don't try to do it themselves because they are Weary Parents and have Better Things to Worry About.

  As my boyfriend stood at the cash to pay for the carefully-quaint wooden puzzle we'd picked out, two creatures (who were definitely old enough to know better) pushed in front of and around him, looking at items and displays. Though their mother was close by, she never made any attempt to reel them in or explain the concept of Waiting Your Turn. (When I was a kid, the author growled, shaking her cane, that kind of bullshit would have had me waiting in the car.) 

  Dear parents - I understand you love your kids but, let's never forget, they aren't my kids. You opted to turn your life upside down for these charming little monsters, not I, and the inconvenience in any given situation should reflect that choice. You are a parent - act like one. And in those moments when you look at your marauding offspring and feel especially reproductively gifted, try to remember this: if you don't keep them in check, your entire contribution to this process isn't much more complicated than that of a feral cat. 

  The party was nice enough. I got to talk to the boyfriend's grandmother a little. She's got Alzheimer's and a wicked sense of humour. She told me she'd been in boarding school from age 6 to 18. She's a tough old lady.

  The baby was lovely, too. I may have felt the second maternal pang of my life. (The first was in my early 20s and immediately staunched with the acquisition of a dog - for whom I did not throw parties.)

  Then again, it might have been the chili.

  g.

   

   

  • 8:15 am
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