The

Joy of Having Children

EM Ariza

There is a God!!
Probably, dear reader, you are wondering how Ive managed to reach this
conclusion on a question that philosophers, theologians and thinkers have been
debating and racking their brains over for centuries without ever reaching a
definitive solution. But I have spoken: There is a God!

And now youll ask me: What complex and sophisticated reflection has
led you to such a conviction?

And I will answer you: Look out the window. Simply looking out the
window and seeing a day as perfect as today. A light gentle breeze, a bright
but temperate sun, trees swaying softly... In other words, what could fairly be
described as a perfect day inviting you to savor the joys of life. Only God
could have created it, because if it had been the work of man, you may be sure
that something would have come out wrong: either the breeze would be too
strong, or the sun would be burning, or... the day would have arrived late this
morning In short, some kind of defect.

But nothing like that has happened; everything is perfect, and perfection is
something only God can achieve. Ergo, God exists.

Thus, with joyous enthusiasm and delighted to have made such an essential
contribution to a complex religious dilemma that has been debated for
centuries, I was determined to enjoy the wondrous gift of such a beautiful day.
And what better way to do so than to take a long morning stroll through my
city park?

Before going on, allow me to explain the basic elements of the park in
question so that you can recreate it in your mind. Like all city parks, it is
centrally located, serving as the lungs of the city for the good citizens who
crowd its streets and concrete towers; and like all city parks it has trees,
fountains, little dirt paths, ponds, ducks, mothers and children, as well as the
obligatory individuals in sports gear jogging past with tortured expressions
and gasping for air.

And as I began my placid and happy stroll this morning, the distant murmur
of childrens voices reached my ears. I went on walking, with the newspaper
tucked under my arm, and I reached a plaza next to a pond, where I could see
a gaggle of mothers with its corresponding mob of children nearby, playing
and shouting happily.

It looked to me like a gorgeous postcard designed to confirm my religious

convictions stated above regarding the existence of God.

As a result of the excitement I felt, after a moment of hesitation, I decided

to call Zoilo to share this marvelous experience with him. I told him all about
it. He listened to me in silence. It may have been a somewhat grumpy silence
because it was a trifle early for him, but nevertheless, he listened attentively as
he always does, and I concluded with a description of the image of the
mothers and their children. It struck me that he was still silent when I
exclaimed with a telephonic smile from ear to ear: What a joy it would be to
have children!

After a long pause, Zoilo replied: The only joy in having children is the
one that comes nine months before theyre born.

"What???" I asked, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

My euphoric joyride had been stopped dead in its tracks. I dont how to
describe it, this time I was the silent one. I didnt know what to say, for the
simple reason that I didnt understand at all. What the devil did he mean by
nine months?

Do you have any idea? For some time, Ive held the conviction that every
now and then Zoilos neural wires get crossed. He is so knowledgeable
(because he reads so much) that I suppose its reasonable and forgivable that a
fuse might sometimes blow in his brain from information overload. The only
joy in having children is the one that comes nine months before theyre born!
What does he mean by this? How are you going to enjoy children who dont
yet exist? And above all, what has it got to do with what we were talking
about? So you see what I mean: Zoilo loses it sometimes.

In such situations Ive found it best to let him give his neurons a rest, and
so after a hasty farewell, I ended the call.

My mood, although somewhat dampened, continued to be positive, and I

decided to get a little closer to the large group of happy children and their
corresponding progenitors.

As I drew closer I could see that the group was rather more diverse than it
had seemed from a distance. For example, there were a couple of pregnant
women walking back and forth, with their hands on their kidneys, looking like
they were imitating the ducks in the nearby pond.

Its true, I thought, pregnancy must be rather rough on a woman. Her

body is subjected to all kinds of changes, and although Ive never been a
mother myself, I can understand that the whole thing must be pretty
unpleasant. Still, theres no other way around it if you want to have children.
The reward is worth it, even if for several months the woman feels that she has
lost her waist, her beauty and her feminine wiles. After all, anything worth
having...

It is obvious that the enjoyable part comes later, once the baby comes into
the picture, because... well, the less said about the labor the better. I have a
friend who was present for the birth of his son and who, twenty years later, is
still traumatized by the insults that his wife hurled at him in that horrific
situation.

As I was saying, the enjoyment comes later, once the project has turned
into a child. And here, beside the mothers and the duck pond, was a good
sample of such projects. So, with a big smile on my face, I began to observe
them.

A short distance from the group of ladies chattering away happily, were
three little tykes sitting in the shade of a tree. They must have been around a
year or two old. They were entertaining themselves with some pebbles.

Suddenly, an earsplitting cry shattered the peace of the morning. I looked

around in search of the tragedy that had occurred and the owner of the larynx
with the power to emit such a scream. Soon I found it: It belonged to a mother
who was howling at one of the toddlers.

From where I was standing I couldnt see the cause of the shriek of alarm,
and so I moved a little closer. I understood the nature of the drama when I saw
the woman who had screamed insert her index finger into her childs mouth
and extract a pebble. As if all hell had broken loose, two other women
evidently the mothers of the other two toddlers pounced on the companions
of the first child and, with incomparable skill, repeated the same finger-in-
mouth operation with the exact same result, extracting handfuls of pebbles and
dirt.

One of the mothers administered a mild spanking on her child, while

another gently struck her childs hand while expounding on the inappropriate
nature of his behavior. I am far from certain that the infant, who was bawling
prodigiously, was particularly receptive to his mothers well-reasoned
arguments.

I looked away from this scene and began observing another group of
children all around seven or eight years of age who were playing
peacefully beside the pond. It was clear that at this age they were well on their
way down the long road to maturity, unlike those little snot-nosed toddlers.
These kids were on a whole different level. They were giving all of their calm,
focused attention to something that I couldnt see because their bodies were
blocking it, but whatever it was, it was uniting them all in a delighted spirit of
camaraderie.

Suddenly, as if propelled by a spring, they all leapt to their feet together

while a duck shot away from their hands in a terrified frenzy. It was absolute
pandemonium: A whirl of duck, children and feathers made for a wild and
rowdy picture. The duck, all but naked evidently their game had involved
pulling out its feathers made a mad dash for the pond. The children,
although they chased it, could not keep the panic-stricken bird from fleeing to
safety in the water.

I watched the mothers observing the scene with amusement, waiting for
them to call their offspring over and duly explain to them that cruelty to
animals is in fact illegal. But all I heard them say, as they looked on with fond
smiles, was: Theyre just kids!

Only one of them got up and went over to the children with a serious
expression. Ah, I thought in a fleeting moment of optimism, at least one of
the mothers is going to tell them off! But I was mistaken. When she reached
the children, in a voice that suggested a desire to ensure that every passer-by in
the park heard her, she shrieked at one of the kids: Look what a mess youve
made of yourself! Never mind the poor duck, who didnt even merit a
mention. No doubt when the Boston Strangler began his first sadistic
experiments, his mother said the same thing: Hes only a child...! And we
all know what that led to.
 After this, I began to lose interest in the mother-child spectacle and I took a
seat on one of the benches, right there in the plaza, as the morning was so
inviting, and I began reading the paper that I had been holding under my arm
until then. I went straight to the critical stuff: the sports headlines.

I was engrossed in this extremely important news when another harrowing

shriek, this one so sharp that it would have shattered glass if there had been
any nearby to shatter, shook me from my reverie. I imagined, as I leapt to my
feet, that something terrible must have occurred, and I scoured the environs to
determine whether I would need to rush to someones aid.

But as yet there was no sign of the tragedy that was about to unfold. To
keep the story simple, I will limit my narration to a description of what
happened and the catastrophic events that occurred thereafter. It began quite
ordinarily, with two children engaged in a brawl. One had apparently bitten the
other and now the mothers were arguing with the same level of mature
reasoning as their children: But your little brat bit my son! Your son started
it! Why dont you try disciplining your kid once in a while? And why
dont you try feeding yours before you bring him out in public? In short,
what could be described as a mature exchange of opinions.

Meanwhile, as I listened to the profound reflections of the two mothers, I

was still trying to work out whether the scream had come from one of them or
from one of the children when disaster struck. It was likely the attention I was
giving to this scene of the mothers exchanging opinions that prevented me
from seeing the imminent danger headed my way: two other pipsqueaks,
frantically chasing a grasshopper in an effort to catch it, whose line of pursuit
was bringing them straight in my direction. The only thing I remember clearly
is that I suddenly felt an excruciating blow to my left leg, at the height of the
calf, and that a moment later two children were bawling at my feet as a result
of having crashed into me. When I looked down at my trouser leg I found, in
the same spot where Id felt the blow a moment earlier, a visible stain that
seemed to be a blend of squashed insect remains and a viscous, sticky
substance that I deduced had its origin in the noses of the aforementioned
children.
 I looked up with the intention of demanding explanations for the behavior
of these children from their respective mothers, but I was immediately forced
to desist when I was greeted by the fierce expressions that the women in
question were aiming at me; I might even go so far as to classify them as
threatening. Among them were the intimidating gazes of the two women who
had been arguing moments before, who seemed to have reached a truce now
that they had found a new enemy in me.

To put it briefly, I gave my trouser leg a gentle shake, placed my newspaper

under my arm this always lends one a certain air of respectability and
with all the dignity I could muster took the only sensible action that could be
taken in such a situation: I fled the scene.

Still limping as a consequence of the blow, I began a quest to find some

part of the park where I would be free of such a diverse and perilous
ecosystem of ducks, grasshoppers, mothers and children.

As I departed, the tumult receded into the distance. My leg and my state of
mind began gradually to recover, and once again my brain began functioning
with its customary acuity.

That was when I began drawing some new conclusions in relation to the
question of children. First of all, it is reasonable to conclude that pregnancy
and labor have more cons than pros; this is an empirical fact. Furthermore,
thanks to my experience this morning I learned that in their first decade of life
children may give you the odd happy moment, but they will also give you a lot
of trouble and misery, and, above all, suck up all your time like a vacuum
cleaner. I thus deduced that the benefits of having children must come
afterwards, or otherwise people simply wouldnt have them.

I began pondering that afterwards while strolling through the less

hazardous areas of the park.

I meditated for some time on this thorny question of having children using
the knowledge Id acquired from observation and the experiences of others,
given that I have never had one myself. Obviously, if in their first years they
were not much of a blessing, it must be when they reach puberty that they
make up for all the misery and their parents start seeing some emotional
compensation.

I thought of my friends who had adolescent children, and tried to remember

what theyd told me about raising said children.

I should begin, dear reader, by clarifying a detail for the uninitiated, for
which, if you are not yet a parent, you will no doubt be grateful. There are two
types of children: boys and girls. Now this may seem a trivial point given that
both are equally classified as children, but the fact is they are not entirely the
same. Believe me, the differences are much greater than the common term
child would seem to suggest, because when puberty hits these two seem to
go in quite distinct directions.

To wit: If the child is a girl, shell develop a complex about having a bust
that is either too big or too small, being too skinny or too fat, and being too tall
or too short; one day shell wake up crying and the next shell be in a state of
euphoria for no apparent reason; shell detest her parents because she has
nothing to wear or because they dont understand her, or because theyre
behind the times and wont buy her the clothes and shoes she needs (even if
her wardrobe is packed to gills) and thus never be able to attract the boy of her
dreams. In short, what anyone would define as a series of quite reasonable
grievances against life and her parents.

If the child is a boy its quite another matter, because the only thing they
have in common with girls is the loathing of their parents for their lack of
understanding, but otherwise the differences are notable: Upon reaching this
age, a boy suddenly loses his ability to speak, being reduced to incoherent
babbling and repeating fashionable clichs, often between monosyllabic
grunts; his face turns spotty and his heart turns hostile toward his father, who
until recently was his idol, but whom he now sees as the main obstacle in his
quest to become a man. If he doesnt have the latest video game or scooter he
blames his parents, because now he will be unable to show off to his friends,
who have become the be-all and end-all of his existence; and although he will
primp and preen daily in an effort to impress girls, he senses that he will never
succeed in doing so without these indispensable gizmos.
 In short, a real joy...

I have to confess that all these reflections were beginning to shake my

convictions. I became increasingly lost in my thoughts while I continued on
my morning stroll through the park.

This is why I decided that the moment had come to be honest with myself,
because it was the only way to resolve the dilemma that was beginning to
trouble me. Thus, I boldly dared to ask myself the burning question: Is it really
a joy to have children, or am I mistaken?

My initial response to this question was one of silent reflection. But in this
trance a conversation Id had with Zoilo long ago on this very topic suddenly
came to my mind. He had argued that it was not a matter of joy, while I had
insisted that it was. At first it seemed to me that my reasoning was more
consistent than his, especially when, with an air of triumph, I put to him the
question: If it isnt a joy, then why does nearly everyone have them? I
suspect that because my argument was so sound he reacted with a reply that
was as incomprehensible as it was absurd, merely, I supposed, because he
didnt want to admit defeat. Judge for yourself, this is what he said: Do you
know what a computer program is? That was a rhetorical question, of course,
so there was no need for me to answer. And he went on: Well, every living
thing is directed by a genetic computer program that shapes and guides our
behavior. The only objective of this program is the continuation of the species,
and so it compels us to have children, and to love them so that well raise and
look after them, and once weve fulfilled these functions our cells age and die,
leaving behind the next generation, which will do the same thing. Thats all.
Pleasure or reason have nothing to do with it. They are tasks programmed
before were born, designed to keep the species going. The joy you mention is
merely the instrument that the program uses to ensure your cooperation.

The truth is that I didnt really understand this answer, although I remember
his words exactly and I assure you that this is precisely what he said. Just as I
did, I imagine you will find this reflection of Zoilos about as clear as an ocean
mist, as a moonless night, as a walk through a dark tunnel... by which I mean,
utterly incomprehensible.
 But then, suddenly, I saw the light. I was struck by inspiration on that
tranquil morning in the park. Id worked it out: Now I know when children are
a joy! As weve established, it isnt before theyre born, or at the moment of
their birth; it isnt during their childhood when they consume the lives of
everyone around them, or during puberty (a period that, incidentally, Mother
Nature, if she were really as wise as they say, would have done well to
eliminate from our development process). No, theyre not a joy in any of these
stages, but afterwards, when they get married or find a partner and move out
of their parents house.

At first I was stunned by the brilliance of my own reasoning. It seemed

almost as sound as my reasoning earlier on the existence of God. Of course,
the joy comes when they leave the nest! Why hadnt I recognized this obvious
fact until this moment? No doubt it was the peace and quiet in that part of the
park where I was now walking that had inspired me.

I decided that my revelation warranted another phone call to Zoilo to share

it with him. But an instinctive sense of prudence led me to decide to mull over
this new idea a little longer; I didnt want my friend to tear it down at once and
make me feel like an idiot.

So I continued my stroll while I ruminated on my theory, and then I

realized: My hypothesis, like the Titanic, was soon springing leaks
everywhere. It was like arguing that you should wear a pair of shoes two sizes
too small so that your feet ache, with the sole purpose of having the pleasure
of taking them off later and putting an end to the pain. Why would you make
yourself suffer with the sole objective of feeling pleasure when that suffering
over? Really, even for me as the progenitor of the theory, it seemed a little
absurd, and Im afraid that Zoilo would deduce this in a second. Better not call
him.

The day was getting hotter when I decided to head for home. I have to
confess that I was feeling a little despondent. And suddenly, I dont know why,
those mysterious words that Zoilo had spoken earlier that morning came back
into my mind: The only joy in having children is the one that comes nine
months before theyre born!
 Id have to reflect on this one; Im sure it must mean something. Ill think
about it tomorrow...

EM Ariza

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