ITS HARD TO STAY MARRIED BUT I WILL DO IT AGAIN AND AGAIN!

Child-free couples are happier than couples who have children.

This is the headline of torrents of articles that have surfaced on the heels of the publication of a recent study called “Enduring Love?” performed by Open University of the United Kingdom.

Golly, is that not an odious claim to make? But I would think that; I’m a happily-married mom. Clearly, I am biased.

However, I would like to believe that, even in the absence of my married-mom bias, I would still wonder about the reliability of such a survey. After all, these types of studies are trying to turn happiness into a science. Happiness… into a science.

I’m sorry, but I’m incredulous.

To their credit, publishers of the study do point out the difficulties inherent in attempting to quantify—or even describe—such abstract emotions as love and happiness. But that didn’t stop them from trying to do exactly that. They asked the questions, they compiled the data, they published their conclusion: If you and your partner want to be the happiest versions of yourselves, don’t have kids.

Hey, I have a suggestion: How about we stop comparing childfree couples to those who have children?

It’s worse than comparing apples to oranges; it’s like comparing apples to a slimy but oddly-delicious and occasionally diarrhea-inducing alien fruit from a far-away galaxy. After all, isn’t it infinitely less complicated to disagree about salt and pepper shakers, or even a maxed-out credit card bill, than about the best way to handle a kid who back-talks, refuses to turn in his homework, or runs up an eight-hundred-dollar wireless bill?

And what about time? When kids enter the equation, there is a shit-ton more stuff to do, and a heck of a lot less time to do it in. There is less time for adult conversation, less time for spontaneous date-nights, less time to have sex, less time to clean, and much, much, much (“much” times a zillion) less time to sleep. Then add to the equation copious amounts of dirt, clutter, barf, snot, tantrums, tears, and let’s not forget the big mamma-jamma: opportunities for disagreement. Those are limitless.

The equation will get imbalanced.

So, to all of the happiness-as-a-science study-conductors who continually remind us of how “unhappy” we married parents are supposed to be: DUH. Of course co-parenting with another human with whom one does not share a brain will make a person miserable at times. That’s because parenting is hard.

This is not breaking news, you guys.

For me personally, there have been points in my marriage when, if I had taken a survey and one of the questions had asked me to rate my happiness with my husband, I would’ve given us an abysmal rating—probably just out of immature spite because I was still seething with rage over some pee-stains I had recently scrubbed from the rim of the toilet—because maybe on that particular day, being the loving, forgiving wife was too much to ask of me on top of all that other crap I had to manage for the kids.

Perhaps the survey might have caught me the morning after I had lain by my husband’s side in bed, wide awake and rage-glaring at him for hours in the futile hope that he would finally for-the-love-of-God-STOP-SNORING-already, and had briefly (just for a moment!) entertained the idea of putting my pillow over his face.

It is not easy keeping the romance alive when kids are underfoot. Every day I am freshly surprised by the difficulty of maintaining any semblance of a relationship with my husband. Sometimes it feels as though we, as a unit, don’t even exist at all. On the evenings he is fortunate enough to get off work early enough to see the kids before they go to bed, all I remember are blurred streaks of color, lightning-quick flashes of haggard togetherness.

But what surprises me even more is the overwhelming rush of solidarity and intimacy I feel towards my husband on those occasions when time slows down just enough for the two of us to appreciate some small, extraordinary thing:

When we share a secret glance over the kids’ heads at something amazing they did, our pride flooding the space between us.

When we cry with laughter at something hilarious one of the kids has done.

When we marvel at how the kids say something with the words of one of us but the attitude of the other—our children are us!

When we cheer for our son at soccer together

When we eat dinner together at the table, and we die laughing about burps, farts, and pig-snort sounds.

When we forget a stupid argument because one of the kids does something adorable to interrupt our anger

When I watch my husband teach our children something new.

When we play together as a family—running, sliding, swinging, singing— Because of our children, my husband and I are children again.

When we watch cartoons together as a family and realize we’ve arrived at full-circle from our own childhoods.

When I watch my husband read a book to the kids after working an impossibly long day.

When we snicker together in the front seat of the car as we listen to the child-chatter emanating from the backseat—the most adorable sounds ever to grace humanity (well, to us, anyway).

And this is only a sampling of these yummy moments, ones I wish like hell I could put in a bottle.

From these fleeting highs, we derive all the happiness we need to stay strong in our commitment to a life which, on even the simplest of days, can be best-described as total pandemonium. For us, this life is bliss. Okay, maybe its intermittent bliss in an ocean of chaos sprinkled generously with aggravation… but that’s enough for us.

We parents chose this life, and we choose it again and again, every day that we stay. And even after it’s been scientifically proven that we’d be happier if we had done things differently, we would still choose this same life again.

But why?

Because love. Love trumps happiness.

If you want to be scientific about it:

Love ≥ Happiness.

Your views are most welcome...