“I just can’t stand kids.” Yeah, me neither. But there is a cure, friend. It’s so simple as to seem unlikely but it really, truly works. And it’s free, sort of.
Have or take care of a child and your loathing will evaporate (or at the very least, be tempered with a new measure of tolerance; see below). Not for a few hours, or just one Saturday evening while your best pal and her 19-year-old boyfriend get a little drunky and dry hump in her Dodge Dart. I’m talking long-term here. Babysit for a week. Three weeks. Take a niece, nephew, cousin or godchild for an entire summer. Foster a preteen. Volunteer for one of those feel-good camps and spend all of July river rafting with and wiping the snot from under-privileged noses. Be the sole support for a wee human, day in, day out, hour after hour, for as long as schedules allow. Tie shoes, trim PlayDoh out of hair, slice carrots and spread peanut butter on celery. Read to, tuck in, soothe night terrors, tuck back in. Wrangle ten tantrums in the grocery store, take a sick day when they’re sick, cancel engagements when they’re hysterical, decline invitations to hot tubbing parties, drinks, concerts, plays and orgies. Stand stone-faced as utter strangers critique your parenting skills at the bus stop. Listen to “Oops! I Did It Again” approximately 412 times without shrieking, swearing, tearing hair from your head or threatening to remove your belt and whip the tasteless troglodyte within an inch of their life.
If you’ve borrowed a juvenile, upon its return to its rightful owner you will find that two profound changes have occurred. Firstly, you will have stepped outside yourself and applied, in the most practical of ways, maturity and compassion to those squalling, squinting, scowling wretches our society so euphemistically labels “children.” When was the last time you put your own needs second? When was the last time you contemplated a choice without weighing how inconvenienced you would be with the outcome? Caring for a kid compels this; it’s not for nothing that we smugly patronizing parental types tell you, “Having a kid makes you grow up fast.” Being responsible for the welfare of a smaller, weaker, stupider human stimulates maturity on the most basic levels. It’s true, you big baby. You’ll find out sooner or later, one way or another.
The second lasting change in your consciousness will be empathy. You will no longer sigh and fume as Mama and her sweaty offspring take 20 minutes at the Slurpee machine. Never again will you roll your eyes and threaten to quit when a co-worker jets to pick up a vomiting moppet from elementary school at two in the afternoon. Should you encounter the choleric bellowing of a denied four-year-old at the candy aisle or movie theater, your eyes will seek those of its adult escort in knowing sympathy. While you will develop a keen nose for abuse and may find it convenient to put Child Protective Services on speed dial, the prying urge to advise, shun, or shame the random hapless parent in a public place for the outrageous behavior of their progeny will leave you completely and forever (or at least until you’re old—then you’ll tell everyone how to do every damn thing anyway).
By birthing or by borrowing, just do it. It’s good for your soul, better for your head, and after you get used to the decibel levels, even your blood pressure will benefit. I’ve got one I can lend you, so long as you get him back before tax time. Earned Income Credit, you know.
populargirls@tabletmag.com
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