Why Americans make terrible mothers

Dear Hannah,

Someone writing for The New York Times loves being a mother and that's why their readers hate her.  In what's got to be the most robust, earthy, energetic essay they've recently published, titled Motherhood Isn't Sacrifice, It's SelfishnessKaren Rinaldi, a fertile, competent, joyful woman explains how having children isn't the worst thing to ever happen to a lady, which caused a host of inferior women to go bananas.

Comments ranged from motherhood is the most difficult job of all to she must be wealthy to saying she was pretentious and elitist.  All of which, it turns out, are true -- if you don't like your children or any children; if you're completely unaware that coal miners exist and that some people fight wars; if you think money makes mothering easy or magical or that handing your children to daycares is normal and healthy; if you're completely out of touch with your biological self, or if you're completely incompetent.  In short, it could only be a terrible article to someone who's a terrible woman, bad at reading, breeding, marriage, and even worse at motherhood.

The way many women speak these days you'd think the baby was born with a gun in hand and holding them for ransom.  The truth is it's nearly the other way around, and that every baby who's conceived has got a scalpel to its throat.  The Spartans, probably the most backward society of people who ever lived, so ugly they made us question whether the invading Persians were actually better, used to throw their babies in the garbage if the babies were weak or defective.  The modern white woman has access to every kind of contraception and finally abortion, yet not only believes that killing a disabled baby is somehow more offensive than killing a healthy one, but has a healthy baby and then spends her lifetime telling us how hard it is to have one.

The question is, why?  Why go through all the trouble of pregnancy and childbirth and dealing with a squealing brat to let us know you have a squealing brat?  The answer is because modern women, like their modern counterparts, the video-game playing, bro-raving, useless dicks-on-legs, are as incapable of handling marriage and children as these "men" are at handling politics and women -- but children can't write comments for The New York Times, so nobody knows how much women have degenerated.

It's often said that few modern men are a match for their grandpas.  Now is the time to admit that few women in America are a match for their grandmas.  Men don't degenerate alone in a vacuum of good parenting.  We've always had our match, and it's the woman who can't look her baby in the face and feel his fingers wrap around her pinky and admit up-front the kid is worth the trouble and that she's got it under control.  The modern man has no brain.  The modern woman has no heart.  The Scarecrow is married to the Tin Man.

This total out-of-touchness with our biological purpose is puzzling for a society so inundated with sex.  It's as if everyone suddenly became so enthralled with making baseballs that nobody had time for baseball, or any clue how to play it.  These women, so childish that they completely dissociate the joy of sex from the joy of having children, believe that honeymoons are supposed to last forever, that matrons should rival teenagers in sexual appeal, that sterility somehow makes a woman more of a woman, that a kiss from an adoring kid is poor compensation for not working a 9-to-5, that a sizable pension and a nursing home are all you need at the bleak end of your life, that killing your own children should come without emotional consequences or health risks -- that motherhood, the raising of a person equally complex as yourself, desiring his own things, dreaming his own dreams, with his own theories and his own virtues and his own vices, beginning totally selfishly and (if you're any good at it) eventually becoming a decent person, is going to be easy; and that one of the main reasons for youth isn't to prepare you for the struggles of raising youths.  

No, this weak-kneed and whiny ignoramus, living day to day believing simultaneously, somehow, in evolution and the extreme importance of sexuality, yet completely severing the value of your seed from the idea of being happy, can't be any kind of progress, or enlightenment, or female empowerment.  She has no pride in her family line or her race or her country or even her biological power; no joy in waking up and seeing a little version of herself and her lover; no ecstasy in seeing a man she loves and dreaming of someday having his babies.  What do they want?  Girl's fun.  When do they want it?  All the time.  How do they mother?  With frowns on their faces.

Thus they envy the strong women, made-up and still fit, pushing strollers and laughing in the marketplace, beautiful beyond the others not only for their looks but for the fact that they made it; that they have everything and do everything and enjoy everything; that they've kept themselves together and are indomitable in the face of difficulty and loved by the people weak women believe are "too difficult" to enjoy.  The things so central to our existence and almost inevitable in our lifetimes don't ruin this goddess or wear her out perpetually or make her envious of teenagers -- the hallmark of a true loser.  She enjoys the present more than the past and looks forward to the future.  She's made a decision and because she has self-respect she lives with it.  Her husband loves her and other men are jealous of her husband.

This is why the women of The New York Times hate Karen Rinaldi.  Because her essay is the exemplary picture of an earthy and joyous woman, and beyond this the kind of woman that every smart and healthy man is interested in marrying -- and they.  Are.  Not.  Her.

Your father,

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  1. Wow. A well-deserved scathing indictment, indeed! Being a mother to my son was the greatest gift I've enjoyed in life. And I'm saying that as a "liberated" Teamster truck driver of 18 years.

  2. Modern American parents of both sexes are often astonishingly incompetent. My wife and I still laugh ourselves silly about the mother at the playground who screeched near-hysterically at her toddler son who'd joined in with other boys in running about with short sticks brandished while saying "pow! pow! pow!". My wife does a perfect mimic of the affronted mom shouting at her son, "No, Hunter! NO! We don't play with guns! No, Hunter!" Which struck us then and now as being an odd admonishment of a child named Hunter. Apparently Hunter had entered his own name onto the certificate of his birth?


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