Calling Red Forman

There is an article piece of agitprop that appeared in a national publication a few days ago. I do not think it signifies much of anything, despite its lurid subject matter (i.e., a person claiming that his acquiescence to an open marriage arrangement with his spouse has made him more of a complete feminist). I am not linking to the article in question because I in fact think it is essentially of a piece with those “letters” to publications like Penthouse Forum. So why am I writing about it? Because it contained this phrase:

“coping with the withering drudgery of child-rearing."

There’s a long point to be made about this claim that “child-rearing,” also known as “being a parent,” is “withering drudgery.” It is a claim that is explicitly or implicitly made quite frequently, and I think it ought to be called out as the merde that it is. I don’t write long polemical pieces here, but I will only say that if you can’t tell the difference between the (hard) labor of love that is parenting on the one hand, and work that is “withering drudgery,” working in a call center for Dell tech support for instance, you have a tiny, shriveled soul — and I pity both you and your children for your ingratitude, blindness, and selfishness.

I am fairly certain that those who find parenting to be mere drudgery are the sort that expect unalloyed pleasure and comfort at every turn. It’s no wonder that they find themselves disappointed…and no wonder that they blame the wrong people for what appears to be a grand betrayal.

My wife and I work awfully hard at being good parents, and yes, it is hard work. There are nights we feel defeated and cross-eyed weary. But my lord, parenting is about as far from drudgery as it is possible to be. Just this last week, we had countless pratfalls, doors left open, strobed light switches, shower snafus, wrestling matches, songs made up, arguments about electronic devices, gales of laughter while driving go-karts, and little bodies invading our bed in the wee hours. This is not even close to drudgery — it’s the imperfect, rough stuff of life. It is certainly tiring, and we are neither perfect nor heroic, so we don’t always react as we should. At the very least, however, we do not mistake our lives as having been given to us for our own comfort or caprices.