On Children

Their unpleasantness but ultimate necessity

I consider myself extremely fortunate to have been born in a country that holds nothing but contempt for children. For the English, few things more odious than the young. Admittedly, the hate directed towards the unemployed and the elderly may well exceed that which children find themselves the brunt of. But in the hierarchy of sympathy, dogs, cats and even pigeons beat them by a country mile.

The very existence of children, which is noisy, chaotic and wilful, goes against the very fabric of English comportment, good-manners and its general tendency to repression. No sooner does a child-carrying mother enter a cafe, pub or tearoom, then the patrons will begin fumbling around under their chairs for their umbrellas, preparing themselves for a swift exit should the child interrupt the peace by uttering even the mildest whimper.

As nasty as this might sound, it is infinitely preferable to the doe-eyed coo-cooing of the child-loving nations, who make a virtue of pumping out children, and who structure a considerable part of their public life to cater a portion of the population which is neither aware of, nor capable of being grateful for, the vast effort which is expended to accommodate them.

That is not to suggest that people should stop giving birth or stop raising their children. Children are an economic necessity. But let no one claim that they are an uninterrupted joy for parents, nor for the friends and family members that are unfortunate enough to find themselves forced to spend time with them. If children brought nothing but happiness, or were their net contribution to the happiness of their parents greater than the nuisance that they cause them, there would be no virtue in having them.

The anti-natalist philosophy, on the other hand, is a ridiculous and illogical one which overlooks the utility of children. They would smash mirrors on the basis that they multiply man. If there were no further children, you may ask them, who, in twenty years time, would serve us coffee and pan au chocolat in our autumn years? Who would clean our toilets? Who will take care of our ageing parents when their inevitable decline obliges us to sweep them into retirement homes?

But it is impossible that an objectionable thesis should exist without its antithesis being even more objectionable. As irritating and as disgusting as anti-natalists may be, the philosophy of the pro-natalists is even less appealing. Invariably Catholic (and therefore easy to dismiss for their bias) these pro-natalists hold the production of children to be of greater importance than that of any other object. Common sense teaches us that children ought to be had when the correct material conditions are met: There should be sufficient funds to school them (privately, preferably) clothe them, and to give them the attention of an experienced Nanny. This is not only for the benefit of the parents and the offspring, but for that of the wider public. People who become parents in their early twenties — or, God forbid, in their teens — are unlikely to produce anything but social security claimants or low-skilled workers, which produce nothing but a net loss for the rest of us.

This sentimentality with which these men and women approach child-rearing is cousin to the soft-bellied cowardice with which others avoid it, and it is increasingly rare to find anyone that holds the sensible and centrist view: That children are a responsibility; to be had and to be suffered. Nothing more.

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