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From the moment I announced I was pregnant, the comments from other parents started rolling in:
Hope you’re ready to never sleep again.
All your hair is going to fall out.
Just wait until he’s a toddler.
Just wait until he’s a teenager!
Do you know what an episiotomy is?
They came from friends, from co-workers, from strangers who saw my rounded belly. (OK, the last one was my doctor.)
At first, they didn’t bother me. Nothing could ruin my excitement. But as the months went on, the comments did too. I began to wonder if anyone actually liked having children. Nobody seemed to have anything good to say. I’ve always liked kids, but from what I was hearing, the second you had any of your own, you find out “the truth”: they drain you, demanding snacks at all hours, crying all night, breastfeeding too much, not breastfeeding enough, breaking valuable heirlooms, forcing you to become an exhausted heap of a person who can’t even drink a cup of coffee without a tiny person insisting on watching Blippi while picking their nose and wiping it on your unused grad-school diploma.
Was this what was going to happen to me?
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James' World 2 
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