I have written before about the warnings given by parents. The ones that try to communicate how awful your life is about to become. I said before Roby was born that I found them tiresome but at least potentially prophetable (is this a word?). Then once I had met Roby I found their sage advice irritating and gross. Now that I’ve known Roby for more than half a year I find their words hideous to the point of the pitiful. 

Upon hearing complaints about children and parenthood I am first struck by frustration: how dare they say that about a truly divine presence in their and our lives, how dare they suggest a child is anything but an inspiration, a guide, a poem in living color. Then I find pity and sadness: it must be that they are blind to color, that they exist in a world without beauty and no amount of perfection could possibly crack the façade of complaint they have built in front of their experience, that must be awful for them. 

But my pity for a person can only exist in their absence. I have a hard time pitying a person if I’m hearing the very thing that makes me pity them, as I hear it or witness it I am made ripe to bursting with a violent sort of annoyance. 

It would be one thing if they were robbing only themselves of the sublime beauty of children, but they’re stealing from the child as well. 

If anything I have grown more patient and more in awe of Roby since she was born. As she claws my ears and nose to hamburger, as she pinches my lips, or wakes us up at 4am, throws her toy on the ground for the 50th time, or demands that we walk around rather than read or do whatever it is we prefer, I love her and am improved by her. Anything I could be doing other than admiring and paying attention to her is a waste of that limited time. What an immense privilege to see her even for a moment. Every act she performs is done with purest curiosity, authenticity, joy and exploration. 

And people complain about this?
Are they insane?
I think they must actually be.

Driven mad by our society that tells them they must complain, they must have a hard time. They could be watching tee vee or buying clothes or drinking, they could be consuming. Instead they have to hangout with this asshole that can’t work even a part time job, can’t spend even a dollar on their own entertainment or health insurance.

A child is a bohissattva, every child is a christ-child. We should all be in awe of these, the most human of humans, and we should aspire to be like them, to polish the ground where they walk, and to be kind to them. 

We are lucky to know children.