My friend Squander Two is unhappy about parental negativity.
If someone is about to go on holiday and looking forward to it, telling them it’s going to be shit is considered rude. Telling children that Father Christmas does not exist — especially in December — is the mark of a true bastard. And telling people how The Sixth Sense ends is enough to get you rejected from polite society and roundly slapped.
Yet for some reason it is not only considered OK but is in fact the norm to tell expectant parents that having a child is going to be utter hell.
It’s a good point, but what he’s describing is quite the opposite of my own experience: with the exception of one individual, who appeared to take great pleasure in the thought of the many privations I’d soon endure, I didn’t hear how hard it was going to be, how painful it’d be for my wife, the effect it’d have on my life and so on.
All I heard before becoming a dad was how easy, rewarding and downright delightful parenthood is, and how I would spend my days skipping around like a freckle-faced child in a meadow made of gingerbread and giggles.
Which, of course, is how I generally spend my days anyway.