I can’t describe to you how much pain I’m in. I can’t stand up straight. It feels like my lower vertebrae has been ground to dust. Wait, no. I was up at four this morning. I haven’t slept in three years. Scratch that. It doesn’t matter how much I tidy, the house is always a kip.
Sometimes it’s hard to pick which complaint to go with today. The back is a good one; I can really sell that.
The need to complain is, I think, a uniquely Irish condition. It’s as much a part of our identity as anything else. And when you become a parent, that innate desire goes off the Richter scale. But here’s the thing: nobody cares. And we all know they don’t.
If you have friends without children, I guarantee they don’t care about how little sleep you get. Your friends who do have children definitely don’t care. They actually got less sleep than you. Plus their two-year-old had explosive diarrhoea last night. And their baby has hand, foot and mouth disease. Competitive complaining is a national sport.
I have a theory. It is wildly improbable, but it is one I hope will portray complaining parents in a most unexpectedly positive light. Do you know why there are more songs about heartbreak than falling in love? Because they are easier to write. The same goes for novels. Think of all the books you’ve ever read. How many were about death, misery or loss? How many made you laugh and feel happy? I’d wager the scales are tipped heavily toward the former.
It is a quirk of human nature that we find it difficult to describe the things we love. Maybe we are afraid we won’t do them justice.
Holiday stories
Imagine your friend comes back from a holiday in Greece. You meet up for a drink and she tells you all about the trip. In one scenario, she describes a perfectly pleasant, if unremarkable couple of weeks. She sat by the pool, read some good books and ate some really terrific meals. She feels re-energised and well rested. She looks amazing. Positively glowing.
In another scenario she recounts the holiday from hell. A certified disaster. A real shit-show. The airline lost her luggage. She got such bad sunburn she was bed-ridden for two days. A waiter sneezed on her aubergines. She went on a date with a handsome barman, and when she got back to his apartment she found out he sleeps in the same room as his mother. She saw a spider the size of a small chicken in the hallway outside her room and couldn’t sleep for the terror.
I’m not one to wish ill-fortune on my friends, but I know which story I’d prefer to hear. By that same token, I know which story I’d prefer to tell. This is the crux of the theory: parents don’t complain because they’re miserable. It’s just a choice between two stories. Who wants to hear about someone’s happiness? Or about how they never thought it would be possible to love something this much?
No thanks.
Make me feel better by telling me about your hard life.
That will make us both happier.
Plus, it’s true: we really didn’t get much sleep last night.