Maybe that's why this NYT piece by Tim Kreider, a single man in his forties, resonated with me:
Most of my married friends now have children, the rewards of which appear to be exclusively intangible and, like the mysteries of some gnostic sect, incommunicable to outsiders. In fact it seems from the outside as if these people have joined a dubious cult: they claim to be much happier and more fulfilled than ever before, even though they live in conditions of appalling filth and degradation, deprived of the most basic freedoms and dignity, and owe unquestioning obedience to a capricious and demented master.
I have never even idly thought for a single passing second that it might make my life nicer to have a small, rude, incontinent person follow me around screaming and making me buy them stuff for the rest of my life.
Then again, this part is also true:
But there are also moments when some part of me wonders whether I am not only missing the biological boat but something I cannot even begin to imagine — an entire dimension of human experience undetectable to my senses, like a flatlander scoffing at the theoretical concept of sky.
Back in my pre-child days, I had so much free time that I used to wish I could occasionally trade places with my future harried mom self and give her a break while spending a lovely evening with my future offspring. (One of the often overlooked advantages of time travel: free babysitting!) It's been a while since I thought about that, but today I wished that I could trade places for one day with the mom of teenaged K. She would probably be nostalgically thrilled to wipe snot and read "Babar and the Scary Day" ten zillion times in a row. And even though I'd miss him yelling "You're Cookie Monster. I'm a cookie!" and running around with no pants on, I would happily hang out with an older K, eye-rolling and all. I bet by the end of the day, my future self and I would be glad to switch back.
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