“Having kids is the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

Ever heard that one? I have. A lot.

It’s what new parents tell everyone within earshot. Their eyes are bloodshot. Between sleep loss and isolation, they have forgotten how to speak to adults. And if you look closely you’ll find flecks of body fluids on their clothes and in their hair. Who are they trying to convince?

I’ve said it. I used to walk around University City with my daughter in a brown sling with flowers on it. Quarter sized beads of summer sweat flowed down my back. I wore sun glasses because I was running on about five hours sleep. This was, by the way, about two more hours than my wife.

And I thought I looked cool. I contemplated making the baby sling a regular accessory. It was like a flowery bandolier, but with a small life instead of bullets. If you had asked me, I would have told you that she was the best thing ever. Note: recent studies suggest that babies produce a cuteness pheromone. It’s why people want to eat them up. It’s why a grown, sleep deprived man would feel privileged to carry one to a coffee shop. I was high.

Three years have passed. I sleep now. I’m married now – a father of three; two of whom no longer produce that elusive smell. Yes, they are beautiful and talented beyond measure, but they are adolescents. They are engaged with a different type of hormonal production.

But this is still the best thing ever. Here’s why.

Wonder. 

Remember that? Once my cousin told me that if I placed my stuffed animal, Purple Dumbo (his real, very unoriginal name), in the moonlight, he would come to life by morning. I believed him. Wonder made me. And before the night was through, my cousin believed a little bit too.

I was about five years old. Soon wonder would become naïveté, and then gullibility. By adulthood, particularly if you live in the city, you come to believe that every spoken word is a lie. That every kind gesture hides sinister intent. It’s how people approach politics and love and everything else. And it sucks.

Well, my daughter wakes up every morning and says, “It’s today!” She believes in the Tooth Fairy and Equestria. Like my cousin years ago, her sense of wonder is so convincing that I’m able to let down my guard and stupidly believe. Watching her watch the world is a welcome break from skepticism.

Productivity.

It may seem counter intuitive, but small children are such effective time stealers, that I’ve been forced to hone my productivity muscles. 

Children want. The Uma wants to play Hello Kitty Cupcake Baker on my office computer. She wants to do this five minutes after I begin working. My step daughter, Song, wants to talk. The stepson, Sol, wants help with his homework. And he wants a video-game. And he wants me to watch him as he attempts to do a flip, or vaults over the patio railing. 

There is no easy remedy. Writing requires internal silence. An upset child is the exact opposite of silence. They throw my rhythm off. By the time my head is back in the game, something else happens. There is always a something else. 

I find I’ve become more focused. They made me. I achieve more in hours that I find, than I did in days or weeks when I was single and alone. 

I simply don’t have the luxury of procrastination. So I drop Song off at school and then hunker down for a while in a coffee shop. I write late at night and when I’m in the bathroom. And by write, I mean I actually write things that need to be written. I don’t do a whole lot of face booking, or web surfing. Just sleeves rolled up, concentrated writing.

Mortality. 

One day I’m going to die. Do you know how I know? Because I’m watching three children become adults. It’s beautifully humbling.

I met song when she was six years old. Now she’s thirteen. She’s going to school dances. Some of her friends have cars.

Before the kids I felt immortal. The years ticked off but nothing really changed. I lived a life that I wasn’t really happy with, but I knew there would be time to change. The novel didn’t get  written. I didn’t push to build my copywriting business. I had time.

Watching three children become adults makes it impossible for me to deny that my own clock is ticking.

This is a good thing. 

Lighten up! They’ll show you how.

Kids are humbling.  They karate chop your ego. They do this with a smile and laughter that sounds like butterfly wings and wind chimes. 

My children laugh at me all the time. Loud, belly laughter. Remember the Big Sir, dad jeans mix up? Song laughed so hard that she nearly suffocated.

They wreck my plans and make me feel like everything that I thought was right is actually wrong. Yes, if you thought that your parents knew guilt, wait until you meet your children. 

This is why parents are so inherently uncool. Because true coolness is like a dandelion in a tornado. It simply can’t survive the fickle whims of a house full of children. It is leeched from us until we are left standing outside of a minivan wearing dad jeans and a seven year old tee shirt.

I watch my single friends. They are so polished. So sensitive. Almost brittle. They say things like, “Did you hear what they said about me?” I yawn and shrug. If doesn’t impact my money or my kids, I don’t care. Life is easier that way. 

How do you know when you are sufficiently humbled? Last week I walked around for half of the day with your zipper down. Pre-Kid me would have been horrified. I would have blushed and mentally retraced my steps, wondering who might have seen me. Three kids later, I shrug, zip and get going. 

I wasted a lot of energy worrying about what someone else thought. I was anxious and socially awkward. My kids pushed me out of it. I find myself dancing now. Badly. You know, like no one is watching. Only they are watching. And they are laughing.

I can’t recommend kids to everyone. If you have a thin skin, or like for your life to have regimental order, then good luck. But the next time someone tells you that their kids are the best thing that ever happened to them, listen. These might be the desperate words of the sleep deprived. But they might just be telling the truth.