3 hours ago
4
I absolutely cannot fathom the number of populist rightwing politicians and commentators who have looked at the smouldering mess that is the world currently and thought: “I know what this situation demands – more toddlers.” Population-boosting discourse and policies have spread across Europe (Hungary, Poland, Greece, Italy and beyond), while in the US an unholy coalition of tech bros, religious conservatives, blowhard podcasters and the politicians who pander to them have gone loudly pronatalist. JD Vance used his first speech as vice-president to proclaim: “I want more babies in the United States of America”; Elon Musk called declining birthrates “a much bigger risk to civilisation than global warming”; and Trump is considering various procreation-incentivising policies, including a $5,000 “baby bonus”, which I believe is what a carton of eggs – hen, not human – costs in the US these days.
Now Nigel Farage has hopped on the breeding bandwagon (tick that off your “What fresh hell?” bingo card). Reform, he says, wants to go “much further to encourage people to have children”.
I needed to do something other than grind my teeth to stumps about this, so I’ve been brainstorming an entrance test for the role of publicly boring on about birth rates. Because having numerous children yourself (Vance lets the side down with a mere three; Musk tops the leaderboard with 14) doesn’t qualify you to harangue others to do the same; you need to have actually walked the multiple-children walk – done the stuff parents without a flotilla of staff or a tradwife spouse have to do.
Here are a few suggested “canon” events politicians should experience before they’re allowed to pontificate about our patriotic duty to breed.
Post-partum multi-child wrangling
Your internal organs either feel like, or actually are, falling out; you can’t sit down or lift anything safely (not sure how we simulate this for the bros, but it’s 2025 – technology can surely assist). Unfortunately, the writhing newborn with its gums clamped to your nipple hasn’t got the memo, and who’s this erupting into the room, exuding the on-the-brink energy of someone whose world recently imploded? It’s 12kg of inexplicably naked toddler barrelling towards a plug socket while intimating an urgent need to urinate, an open bottle of Calpol (where did they get that?) casually slung in one hand. Your move – oh, hang on, you can’t move.
A month of bedtimes
Just regular, awful bedtimes: different, elaborate, multi-phase sleep rituals more complex than a Korean skincare regime for each child. A colicky baby. A toddler who fights sleep with the raw power of a heavyweight boxer. A child who waits until 11pm when you’re on your very last nerve to ask the big questions about death. Standard stuff.
Soft play
You’re hungover, sick or sleep-deprived (joke – you’re always sleep-deprived) and desperate to crawl into a dark hole, but no, it’s 9am, everyone’s been up for four hours and you’re in an echoing hangar with lighting, music and general ambience inspired by Guantánamo, having paid £10 per person for the privilege.
One kid is attached to your leg, refusing to have fun without you; one has vanished entirely; another is headed straight into the ball pit, where they promptly have a screaming nervous breakdown. You’ll need to retrieve them, knowing there’s at least one rogue poo in there somewhere (worst lucky dip ever).
How bad can it be, you say to yourself? Then the sweating and the flashbacks start. It’s worse than ’Nam in Clarks and there’s no way out but through.
A budget self-catering break
The cottage has vertiginously slippery stairs and surfaces full of low-hanging fragile knick-knacks, plus inadequate curtains, so everyone wakes at 4am. With no Freeview or phone reception, you can’t outsource the early shift to Bluey. The intersection of allergy, intolerance and awkwardness is such that there is no food everyone will eat. It’s day one and you’re already praying for the sweet release of death.
Simultaneous family norovirus
Guts in violent turmoil, you’re physically unable to move more than a metre from your lavatory while being repeatedly called upon to clean up – probably even catch in your cupped hands! – your sick children’s effluvia. Tell me again how more kids are the answer to the world’s ills?
