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I read the latest Toronto Life cover article by Katrina Onstad with much interest: “Baby Invasion,” about hipster parents - those who are over 30, live in downtown neighbourhoods like Parkdale and Leslieville, have money and spend it on funky ironic accessories for their kids and generally “want to make Toronto a city that fits them with kids like it fit them before kids.” After all, I fit the age bracket in question, I live in Leslieville (albeit the definitely less gentrified end), and my kid even has an AB/CD onesie that I think is actually kind of funny.

However, we don’t own a Bugaboo, and in fact, I’d actually never even heard of the high-end baby carriers mentioned. My kid wears almost exclusively gratefully accepted hand-me-downs, and when I go jogging, I use a good old FM radio that straps to my arm instead of a Nano or Giga or whatever the latest iPod is called. And by the end of the article I found myself increasingly anxious to distance my husband and me as far away as possible from the juvenile, self-centred parent-zillas who want to pretend that their world hasn’t changed since they’ve had kids.

Hello!!? Everything has changed since you’ve had kids!!! At least it has for me -- my body is stretched and scarred, my brain runs a constant baby scanning program instead of thinking about current events (“did he just eat something off the floor? my god, can he really have pooped six times today and should I be concerned? is it time for a bottle yet? has he grown out of those shoes already? when will we be out of diapers? shouldn’t he be able to say mama yet, damn it? has his head always been that shape?”) against the incessant background of Raffi songs that get endlessly stuck in my head, my finances have been reduced to vigilant coupon-clipping and picking up pennies in the road, and a romantic evening with my husband consists of falling asleep in front of a rented movie before 10 pm.

In “Baby Invasion,” Onstad talks about hipster parents desperate to continue their lives as they had been pre-baby, to the point of strollers taking over the small trendy boutiques and resto-lounges that they frequented before breeding. The mention of kids dining at Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar was something that I have actually witnessed on my first, and so far only, “girls night out since baby.” Who would have thought that a diaper bag and a sippy cup would be appropriate fashion accessories at 10 o’clock on a Saturday night?

What I found most ridiculous in her article, and seemed to crystallize the image of hipster parenting was the phenomenon of parents taking kids to the Drake and other “it” spots for afternoon club parties. Toddlers clubbing? Are you kidding? Seriously, I fail to see any merit to that. Parents can’t have a good time if they’re trying to keep kids from eating gum off the beer- and vomit-stained floor, and kids can’t have a good time if they aren’t allowed to eat the gum off the beer- and vomit-stained floor. As Onstad’s partner points out, what makes this phenomenon so ridiculous is that most people have kids specifically so they never have to endure the club scene again.

Rebecca Brown, the “brainchild” behind the “clubbing with your kids” business says of the hipster parent phenomenon: “It’s about sharing your interests with your kids just as you share theirs” -- but I say it’s an experiment about to go totally wrong.

F irst of all, it implies an equality that should not exist. Kids are kids, and parents are parents. Sharing interests with kids is fine when it’s age and development appropriate. Passing on a love of books by taking them to the library seems like a good idea to me, and digging in the garden together to foster an appreciation in plant life and the outdoors is mutually beneficial. But are hipster parents seriously saying that the hobby they must share with Junior is getting wasted at the Gladstone on imported vodka cocktails while wearing an “ironic” sequined Che Guevara T-shirt and comparing tattoos? Now, before he hits kindergarten?

Are we setting ourself up for rebels who favour unbleached cotton bonnets and sackcloth pants?

Secondly, kids hate it when their parents try to act young and cool (for example, when they wear little kid T-shirts and plastic barrettes, as Onstad points out, is hip for moms at the playground) because part of the cool factor for young people is youth itself. I’m reminded of Alex P. Keaton who rebelled against his hippie parents by becoming a fervent capitalist. Are we setting ourselves up for rebels against their hipster parents by becoming pioneers, say, who reject all forms of technology and “ironic” consumerism? Will they eschew iPods and Blackberrys and rail against skinny/wideleg/boot cut designer jeans in favour of unbleached cotton bonnets and sackcloth pants?

Okay, maybe I’m being ridiculous. But so is trying to act like being a parent has made absolutely no impact on your life.

Onstad concludes that the years before kids (B.C., if you will) and the years after entirely different: “Kids don’t really fit the kind of narrow, High Fidelity framework that we cultivated so carefully in our 20s. They fit into the most profound places in our lives, burrowing down deep where it matters, leading us towards selflessness, love, meaning.”

Agreed. Being a parent means making a journey towards being a better person, so that you can be a role model to someone who’s going to learn what being a person means from you. In other words, growing up and being the adult. It’s a journey that by definition is at times inconvenient, hard, boring, repetitive, frustrating, repetitive and mind-numbing. Kids aren’t adults. Spending time with them isn’t like spending time with adults. It’s not supposed to be.

At the end of the day, we’re all just doing our best for our kids. I desperately mourn the brain cells lost in looking after a baby, and we’re not even in the PlayDoh eating, “But why, mommy? Why? Why?” stages yet. But instead of taking my kid to a nightclub, I’d rather enjoy my vodka cocktail at home, and maybe have an adult conversation with my husband, but not until Junior has gone to bed and all the toys have been put away. Perhaps on occasion, ask my mother or sister to babysit, and then go out for a nice grown-up dinner.

Just don’t be offended when I ask to be seated far away from your exhausted kid when he throws a tantrum at 10 pm in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Even if he does look cute in his iPoo’d onesie.