My parents used to say they would have been better off raising pigs than children. Personally, this was not true. They didn’t have patience for either one of us, but that’s not the point here.

This wasn’t said in jest. It was not a joke or a metaphor. This was said the way people say things when they’ve reached the end of their emotional rope and are considering arson or abandonment. This was a threat wrapped in disappointment and delivered at full volume, usually followed by an eye roll, a tone, or a look that suggested we had all agreed they were the problem and we were simply tolerating them.

The argument was simple. Pigs don’t talk back. They don’t argue. They don’t roll their eyes so hard that they nearly detached a retina. You feed pigs, and they grow. You feed them again, and eventually they become bacon, ribs, pork chops, and loin roasts. You can grind what’s left into sausage and call it efficiency. Pigs understand the contract. Pigs respect authority. Pigs don’t question your motives.

It’s a clean transaction. Mutual respect. Clear outcomes.

Children are not transactional. They do nothing but question your motives.

Children take everything you give them and respond with attitude, skepticism, and a strong belief that you are deeply out of touch. They challenge every single word that comes out of your mouth, not because it’s wrong, but because it came from you. They will interrogate tone, timing, logic, and intent like tiny sociopaths trained in emotional warfare. They will make you explain yourself until your own reasoning sounds suspicious to you.

It takes every single fiber of your being not to want to choke them.

Figuratively. Calm down. Obviously. Before anyone calls social services.

I told my daughter the other day that God made babies, toddlers, and puppies so cute because otherwise humanity wouldn’t have survived. That wasn’t sarcasm. That was theology. If infants came out looking angry, acting irrationally, and being loud, no one would keep them. The fat cheeks and enormous eyes are a cuteness buffer. A visual delay tactic. A way to keep adults from making permanent decisions during temporary psychosis.

 That’s not biology,  that’s a mercy system.

Because parenting is not rewarding in the way people lie about.

It is not fulfilling in real time. It is not emotionally affirming. It does not come with gratitude, validation, or a performance review that says “Great job holding it together while someone screamed at you over a cup color.”

Parenting is thankless. It is repetitive. It is loud. It is being needed every second of the day while being treated like the dumbest person in the room. It is explaining the same rule for the thousandth time, while being told your logic “doesn’t make sense” by someone who still needs help tying their shoes.

You are the villain in their origin story for years.

And still, somehow, it does something to you.

Not gently. Not kindly. Parenting dismantles you. It exposes every weakness, every control issue, every bad habit you swore you didn’t inherit. It strips you down to your least impressive self and forces you to operate there daily. Calm. Patient. Responsible. All while someone actively works to destabilize you.

The reward doesn’t come with hugs or gratitude. It shows up later, quietly, when you’re not looking. When they handle something hard without falling apart. When they show kindness without being told. When they show restraint, empathy, or humor in a way that feels unfamiliar, and then uncomfortably familiar. When they carry themselves in a way that makes you realize some lesson actually landed despite your sarcasm, impatience, and occasional fantasy of living alone with no one touching your stuff.

That’s when it hits you.

 Pigs give you bacon. Children give you perspective.

Pigs don’t slam doors. They don’t roll their eyes. They don’t announce they hate you because you won’t let them make objectively terrible decisions. Pigs don’t test your emotional limits or force you to confront who you really are when you’re exhausted and outnumbered.

Raising children is brutal. It is exhausting. It is emotionally hazardous. It will make you fantasize about simpler lives, quieter houses, and animals that don’t speak English.

But pigs also don’t grow up. They don’t grow into people who still carry your voice in their head. They don’t come back. They don’t become adults who still need you, just differently. And don’t be fooled, you will still be miserably wrong. They don’t take pieces of you into a world that doesn’t care how much you sacrificed. They don’t walk through the world with pieces of you stitched into their behavior, for better or worse.

Raising children is maddening. It is humbling. It will break you down and rebuild you, whether you asked for it or not. It will make you question your sanity, your choices, and whether pigs might have been the smarter investment.

And still, even on the worst days, you wouldn’t trade it.

Even when bacon sounds easier.