Nothing filled me with more dread than a new mother asking if I wanted to hold her baby.
I didn’t do that.
Boarding a long-haul flight and discovering there was a child on board (if not several) sent my blood pressure soaring. And not once did I get up to see someone’s newborn paraded around the work office. I didn’t even pretend to be interested. Seen one, seen them all.
People used to tell me to sniff them. So babies.
To fully inhale the delightful ‘new baby smell’. To this day I have no idea what they are talking about. Babies smell like Weetbix.
But in 2024, that’s the one thing I still don’t appreciate about children.
Hatred has been replaced with worship. I know, it’s gross.
I’ll spare you the details of the birds and the bees, but in July 2021 I approached the age of 36 with the full intention (and complete satisfaction) of never becoming a mother.
Then I became weak and then I got pregnant. The birds and the bees in full, terrifying unison.
I cried to my own mother who knew very well that I had every maternal instinct like a doorknob.
I cried because I was terrified of how much life would change (and I didn’t want it to) but I was also terrified that I would be a terrible mother – you know, the kind who openly admit they hate children and get off buses to avoid snoring.
My mom told me it’s different when they’re your own, and my eyes rolled so far back in my skull they did a loop-dee-loop. I expected better advice than idiotic clichés.
Turns out she was right. Because mothers always are.
If you also find platitudes unbearable, here’s what turned me from Miss Trunchball to Mary Poppins in the space of 7.5 months (hell came early).
“You’ll Never Sleep Again” is a big, fat – annoying – myth
One of the reasons I never wanted kids was because my lazy gene thought it sounded absolutely terrible and I happily admitted I was too selfish to deal with sleepless nights. Due to the fact that I had never been interested in babies, and because the idea that “you will never sleep again” is repeated by – seemingly – everyone, I really believed that the hourly vigils were going on for years.
Sure, for some unfortunate souls it does, but I lived on 2 hours of sleep a night for a whole few months before it got significantly easier. I’d go so far as to say that serial Netflix binges and stressful workloads have resulted in a worse night’s sleep than a one-year-old’s.
Playgrounds are not the work of the devil
The fear of giving up your ideal lifestyle for noisy playgrounds and everyday activities like hiding behind the curtains and shouting “peekaboo” does not arise. Shockingly, it’s all quite funny. Sure, some days I’d rather nurse an espresso – undisturbed – for hours while I quietly ruminate, but I’m also very happy to see my son having fun in all the places I thought sounded awful: the playground, the pool, the sandbox. .
You find your inner child and wedge your old wobbly bottom down a slide again, or under the bed for a game of hide and seek. It’s surprisingly fun. That said, beware of some indoor playgrounds, where the foam pit is suspiciously greasy and always smells like cheese.
Your own child won’t treat you like an idiot (too often)
Children have a good ability to make adults feel small, silly and pathetic. They can belittle us with a comment or cruel observation and they could reduce a hard-hitting CEO to tears within a minute. The worst? You cannot take revenge.
On the contrary, you feel even more self-conscious and shut up while they go about their day, completely unaware that they’ve just destroyed a lifetime of therapy. Fortunately, for the most part, your own child will love you too much to treat you with the same contempt as ordinary children. In addition, you have the power to “disapprove mom stares” and soon learn the international language to gain the approval of all children: fart noises.
They are funny
As a lover of weird humor, how did I not realize that children – easily the biggest weirdos on the planet – are the perfect purveyors of laughter? Say otherwise and I’ll show you a kid (my own) who took off all his clothes mid-walk to the dairy while insisting on pulling a yellow boogie board up the road. When a bunch of teenage boys drove by and yelled “yeah bro!”, I beamed. Nothing amuses me more than a lack of inhibition and a complete disregard for social norms. A short walk to the dairy for him = a huge surge of dopamine for me.
But you’re funnier
If my son is anything to go by, I’m a comic genius. Nothing makes me feel more validated as a master of stand-up than my son’s laughter from the sidelines as I pretend to fall over in slapstick fashion. Classic. Do that 10 times on repeat and you’re basically Rowan Atkinson. Then you find yourself playing up to the role of class clown, finding new and more ridiculous ways to get a laugh. So far I haven’t failed – it’s the easiest KPI you’ll ever crush.
It’s not as boring as you think
Many years ago I remember my niece visiting for three hours while I was staying with my parents. When she left, the relief was monumental.
Don’t get me wrong, I love her dearly, but nothing cemented my anti-kid feelings more than seeing her go home. I was exhausted; I wanted to sit down and quietly watch a movie – and without having to pretend to be interested in something boring like the bathtub for the umpteenth time.
I have never felt the same kind of exhaustion with my own son. Sure, sometimes it’s exhausting but when your brain knows you’re running a marathon and not a 10k, you dig deep and find the energy anyway.
Don’t tell anyone but tantrums can be brilliant
As a spectator, children’s outbursts are abhorrent. It’s nails on a board meeting crying cats. Then there are the tears and the snot: nausea. It’s not always fun and tricks for parents either, but there are times when the whole spectacle is really fun. Ridicule would be cruel and for little people the despair they feel is real, so while their world is ending because the milk is white (and they woke up that morning determined to have black milk), turn away and stifle your laughter.
The joy of absolutely everything
I wish I woke up with the optimism of a small child. The sheer joy of it being sunny (even when it’s blatantly cloudy) is contagious. Wait until they see a rainbow, or a digger, or a bus. Suddenly, you’re reintroduced to simple pleasures that haven’t enthralled you since you were a kid yourself, like writing condensation on the window, making beards out of bubble baths, and making hand shadows. It’s small, silly even – and that’s the glorious point.
Snorts, dribbles and sloppy poops are less offensive than you think
Here’s the biggest truth about the whole “it’s different when they’re your own” saying. Parents (and I’d argue it’s mostly mothers judging by my husband’s theatrical gagging) are unaffected by their children’s grossness. I’m happy to take a dribble lick across the face, but I still refuse to share drinks with my partner because spit makes me gag. And I’m not saying poop-filled diapers smell like roses, but it wasn’t until I dropped my son at daycare and got a whiff of someone else’s sticky pants—my eyes watered with horror—that I realized I don’t react the same way. the way to my own serial pooping son. I can guarantee he’s just as hideous, I’m just convinced Mother Nature programmed me not to register it.
You give up a lot but it’s worth it
Recently I found a photo of myself, pre-kids, mountain biking in Taupō and man, am I ripped. It made me sad. I love adventure and I (loved) the gym but I later canceled it for a Disney+ subscription.
As a full-time working mom and the only parent available in the morning, I skipped a daily workout several years ago and the mommy guilt kicks in if I try to go after work. I also miss the cinema and eating out without the extra cost of a babysitter.
Fortunately, as an older mother, I also lived a life before children that I have no desire to return to; boozy weekends, backpacking and all-round debauchery. Aside from a few squats and buns of steel, I hold no resentment for a life I can no longer live.
So there you go
I don’t hate children anymore. I deeply love two (one still brews) and tolerate the 10% that will always be annoying. You know those.
As a woman who never wanted children, I also do not encourage anyone to embrace parenthood. These are simply my own experiences, and if I were still child-free I would probably have written an equally positive story on a different topic.
But to channel my mother’s love of a good idiom – life is what you make it.
And I add this: with or without children.
