People with kids are a monolith: Robbed of taste by circumstance, they can no longer engage the zeitgeist. They are occupied by their strollers and giant cars full of crayons and Cheerios, and therefore ignorant to culture, fashion, and habitat. They are broken people, devoid of personality and potential.
Unlike other groups, no special criteria must be satisfied to make friends among parents. All they require for kinship is the feeling of shared experience: people they can relate to over their unknowable struggle.
People with kids describe this exclusive condition with poetic hyperbole: agony of this, ecstasy of that; short years of long days. Your heart living outside your body.
All this grandstanding feeds parents’ insufferable air of superiority. They think they’re doing something noble with their lives, and everyone else is wasting theirs.