Rugrats

I’ve never been fond of rugrats – er, children. Probably because I haven’t been around them much. This may seem illogical to those in the habit of saying things like, “But how do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never even tried it?” Well, I’ve not been exposed to maggots or termites and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t dote on them either.

My stance often confuses people.  “But you’re so good with the dog!” They’ll exclaim.  I wonder if these people are so brain-damaged by child rearing that they think dogs are separated from humans by about two chromosomes.  Dogs are nothing like children.

Dogs are easy, cheap, and stupid. With enough repetition, dogs will do anything you want for a three-cent biscuit because their brains are about the size of a golf ball. Kids are complicated, expensive, and have the capacity to think.  With or without repetition, kids will do practically nothing you want them to – even when offered a $5,000 scooter. 

Another problem with kids is the constant struggle to keep them entertained. If you have a dog and a tennis ball, you have a party. But when kids aren’t demanding more video games, a new car, or this year’s soon-to-be-forgotten toy, they’re asking questions about nature and how things work. Before long, you realize what an idiot you are for being unable to explain why the sky is blue or how bears hibernate.

Kids are also more expensive than dogs. My dog gets a forty-dollar bag of the same dry brown crunchy pebbles each month, a steady supply of used tennis balls, and the occasional rawhide. Meanwhile, my four-year-old niece has toys that squeak, talk, roll, bang, toot, and teach him the alphabet and more toddler outfits than I have shoes. And still, my sister-in-law always claims, “We can’t afford it” when I suggest doing anything that costs more than the price of a happy meal.

Granted, as children get older, they’ll often do terribly cute little things like start to walk, form complete sentences, and grin and wave at you on their way to kindergarten. But then, ten years later, they’re “experimenting” with drugs, donning tongue rings, and camping out under overpasses with uzis. And, by the way, they hate you too.

Maybe if kids were more like dogs I’d consider reproducing. If I could feed it nothing but Ramen noodles for 18 years, it might not be a terrible idea.  Or if it did everything I asked of it for a new Pez dispenser.  Or if I could tape its mouth shut so it wouldn’t ask so many questions.

Unfortunately, I think most of those things result in prison time or a broadly promoted book your child eventually writes to tell the world what a terrible person you are.

I think I’ll just stick with dogs who do what I tell them to, demand only rawhides and tennis balls, and are satisfied to eat the same cheap crunchy brown food for fifteen years while licking my face and thinking I’m wonderful.