I don't have children. There are two reasons for this... 1) I do not live in a house with suitable dungeon facilities 2) I would more likely eat any offspring than nurture them to maturity (to quote a friend).
Maternal, I am not. As I've mentioned before, I don't squeal when I see baby clothes. In fact (I was thinking about this during the umpteenth baby shower that I've had to attend in the last few weeks at work), I think my reaction is closer to that of a homophobic straight man stuck in the middle of a gay pride celebration.
...Get me out, get me out, get me out... just nod and smile, nod and smile... get me out, get me out...
So I will be the first to admit that I know very little about parenting. This is by choice. I block out conversations that involve pooping, puking, baby food and diapers (unless we're reminiscing about some of the more revolting stories to come out of varsity days).
But I do know one thing for sure... this woman is wrong.
I don't have children, but last time I checked, they're not likely to understand Machiavellian social mores debate...
"No Tristan, Mommy said you can't have the nice lady's hand bag."
"Because you're still counting your age in months and the bag belongs to her."
"First, allow me to validate your feelings... I know you like the bag. But the way society works is that she paid for the bag, the bag is therefore hers. We need to look at this from a pragmatic point of view, sweetie..."
Or, alternatively, a swift smack to the back of the hands to get the message across that pawing other people's possessions is not cool.
Unrestrained toddler sets off at pace towards busy intersection. Old-school parent grabs child's hand, smacks child on diapered bum, enforcing the instruction that road + cars = danger.
Unrestrained toddler sets off at pace towards busy intersection. New-age parent trots along next to child, expressing their heart-felt reasons for why child should not set foot on the road, but at the same time reinforcing their support in any decision that the child chooses to take. Three-year-old meets eighteen-wheeler truck = messy.
But hey, what do I know.... the only children I choose to care for are two fat goldfish. I would smack them for swimming in their own poo, but I don't like the way they wriggle when I catch them.