Being a 30-year old parent, I have found myself surrounded by two groups of friends: The Childless and The Parents (also known as Those Who Have Blown Out Their Vaginas or T.W.H.B.O.T.V.s for short).

And don’t worry you Ceasarian-birth moms, you get an honorary blown out vagina.

You’re welcome.

Obviously I spend a lot of time with The Parents, as The Childless are busy being hip and urban and not wiping shit out of two-year-old butt cracks.

But whenever I get together with The Childless Hipsters (and I use that term in a positive I’m-totally-jealous-of-you kind of way), conversation usually comes around to parenting and/or childbirth. See, most of my Childless Hipster friends are the same age as me, but more recently married and not quite ready to jump in to the pool of breeding just quite yet.

I, being of The Parents, try my damnest every time we socialize to convince them that getting knocked up is fun and they should do it post haste.

But last week I realized that maybe my tactics of describing my torn up labia and birth canal the size of a woolly mammoth may not be exactly enticing.

Whether they want to hear about it or not (but sometimes they do!), we discuss everything from pooping on the table during labor, infants projectile vomiting on you, poo blow-outs and how to remove a onesie successfully (aka: without dragging poop all over your preshus widdle bebe) and the ups and downs (mostly downs) of incontinence.

Now, of course these make terrific horror stories to share with your Childless friends, but I’ve been finding it difficult to convince them that all these things are inconsequential when it comes to your squishy widdle bebe-kins.

Pooping during delivery? You don’t even know you did it. And everyone does it. So really, if you are part of the in-crowd, not only will you WANT to poo on the table, you’ll be proud you did.

Coated in projectile vomit? You don’t have time to gag. You are immediately concerned as to your bebe’s welfare. Only later will you be concerned about the welfare of your new cashmere sweater.

Oh wait. But you aren’t Childless anymore. So you won’t be wearing a new cashmere sweater. The reason why you will be un-phased by the vomit is because your Old Navy tee will be covered in spit-up stains by then. Maybe this projectile vomit will complete the abstract pattern you were going for…

But none of these arguments seem to work.

So now I’m stuck trying to put in to words how amazing is it to be a parent.

Like the first time they turn to you (without prompting, thankyouverymuch) and say, “Mommy, you so beautiful” or learn to spell a new word all on their own or even bump their head while playing and the only thing that can make it better is a hug and kiss from you…

And how, no matter how many times you complain about having to watch The Wiggles again, the minute you get a break away from the house without your children, the only thing you can think about is them: what are they doing? Are they okay? Do they miss you because you sure as hell miss them.

And when you come home from running errands, the look on their face, that pure amazing expression of love, and the shriek of “Mommy!!” as they run open-armed toward you…that, my friends, that is why being a parent is the best job in the world.

And getting to use the carpool lane every day ain’t too shabby either.

Song title: The Parent Trap by Lizard Music