In the same way that sobriety tends to shed harsh light on scenes of drunkenness, for those who have children, traveling without them can lead to the realization that most children are, in fact, horrible little monsters — and I'm not sure what could lead any sane couple to knowingly conceive more than one. (Yes, this despite the fact that last week I nearly melted into a puddle of tears in a cab still on my street as I kissed my own kids goodbye for a week-and-a-half of business a half a world away.)
Horrible little monsters?
Indeed. Firstly, filthy:
I knew having kids would be a life changer. That's a given. But the
ways in which living with said kids lowers the bar of what is socially
acceptable can be staggering.
In the past three years since our older daughter was born, I have — in public, mind you — eaten the odd piece of food off their faces, fed them off the floor, sniffed their bottoms, changed their diapers, and been spit up on.
Add to the public face of our family the mayhem of what my wife and I endure in our home — where, a few weeks back, I picked up what appeared to be a prune, which had been sitting quietly underneath the kitchen chair of our one-year-old. Memo to self: when you live with two cats and two children, always look before you leap. What I picked up, it happens, was a cat turd, which had managed to wind its way down two flights of stairs, through a swinging cat door, around four turns, and into my theretofore clean fingers.
Mild infantile spit-up is one thing, but at one week old, I picked up our younger daughter, who in turn (and with all the strength in her young body) projectile vomited adult amounts of yack all over my face. My wife walked into the room, saw the carnage and said to me perhaps the most brutally honest words I've heard in my life: "You have some in your mouth."
This is what I have been reduced to.
Lest I digress. Secondly, kids are loud:
Boy, nothing drives this one home faster than a plane ride next to children who are not your own. They simply do not make melatonin and earplugs potent enough to drown out the din of crying child on a transatlantic flight.
Blame it on evolution, for we are hard-wired to be alarmed by the cries of a child (yes, even dads). We cannot ignore it. Nor think through it; nor sleep through it; nor watch TV through it. Indeed, the cry of a child is the precise pitch at which madness is induced and lobotomies considered. We can barely even live through the cries of a child not our own.
And that's just the half of it. Our toddlers take unfettered pleasure in screaming as often as possible. They make a game of seeing whom can maintain a higher tone for a longer period of time. I can assure you this is not artful and worthy of musical encouragement. Our girls hit notes that shatter glass; cause car alarms to go off, and neighborhood dogs to wet themselves.
Thirdly, kids are stinky:
The first diaper I ever changed was filled with an alarmingly black, pitch-like substance perhaps designed to scare off posers who should have considered practicing by first buying a dog. I didn't scare (OK, maybe I did, but I didn't run screaming), and my horror was all explained away by, well, this.
In any case, the constant diapers of our first infant daughter got better. But like nearly everything that gets better, it then got worse. Much worse.
What can you say about diapers, other than the fact that, mercy sake's alive, when the kids start in with the solid foods, it gets ugly quick. And when on TV doctor shows or mortuary shows or forensics shows they toss off hard-boiled lines about getting "used to the smell," let me just say that they are full of shit. And none of these shows would maintain any sex appeal whatsoever if they were produced in Odorama. Because in real life, even pee reeks. And kids, well, they have plenty of that.
That new baby smell people talk about? Sure, it's nice. But it's far less potent and wears off far more quickly than new car smell.
Fourthly, kids are just plain obnoxious. They're snotty and demanding and adamant, and always up in your business. It's all about them, 24-7. They're thuggish little Id monsters, always with the wanting to watch TV or play or be fed or changed or bathed or held.
Nothing is more fun to our younger daughter than to simply punch my leg. Over and over again. Things that are also fun include the pulling of hair (leg, arm, and chest included), batting off of glasses, slapping the face, throwing the food, smiling and looking at you while throwing the food, and so on.
My wife and I recently discussed the fact that we have to stop reacting to similar outbursts from the three-year-old with the demand, "What is wrong with you!?" Because, probably, that sort of thing later comes back to bite one in the ass in the form of therapy bills. But the fact remains, that whether we edit ourselves or not, it is generally one's knee-jerk reaction when a thinking person, regardless of age, does something with the intent to injure another, or even just to piss one off without provocation.
Am I right?
Well, lastly, let me just say that after a week-and-a-half away (and often without it) I too am horrible and dirty and loud and smelly and obnoxious. And I love it. I miss my two young daughters right now more than words (even words other than these) can possibly convey.
RK, E-O, I would not trade either of you for the world. Daddy's coming home. Yes, to clean your filth, bear your screams, smell your diapers, and take your beatings. And I can't wait.
Let's just hope I don't have to sit next to someone else's kids on the plane.
