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...
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