I like to think of myself as a very kind understanding parent. One who listens and tries to understand his larval offspring. This of course is a horrible lie. That’s my wife who does that.
I’m mostly into this parenting thing for the cheap labor and the chance to mess with children’s tiny tiny brains.
My son is twelve and has no concept of how awesome his life is compared to the VAST majority of humanity. He lives in a place and age where he can reasonably expect to have plenty to eat, a decent home, and a future that’s as bright as the effort he puts into it.
Statistically he lives at a time where he is less likely than ever before in the entire history of mankind to getting horribly and violently killed. And unless there actually is a zombie apocalypse looming on the horizon his future looks brighter than mine ever could be.
Yet for all that, whenever he has to clean his room his personal world is a bleak place indeed. A universe without hope and steeped in a percolating ocean of dispair.
Oh how I weep for him! Such tragedy! I look forward to the day when he finally realizes how unbelievably lucky he is.
….Also I should probably call my dad and apologize for being the exact same way when I was a kid. (sigh)