We should like to take many
holidays, and if we were left alone we would do it. But parentage binds
us to the wheel. We discover that we have got to face the grind,
because the plain alternative is that the bairns would starve. And so
we do it. Of course at times we rebel. You may hear men every now and
then complaining half cynically and half humorously that, having once
been indiscreet enough to fall in love, they were thenceforth swept
along by rapids till at last they found themselves involved in all the
paraphernalia of family life from perambulators to doctor's bills. But
there are few men who do not know in their hearts that the toils have
been the making of them. If love led only to delights, it would ruin
us. It is because it leads also to heavy labor that it makes us. It is
because I see this so clearly that I am not so much distressed as some
people are over the fact that motherhood also means very hard work.
[Footnote: No doubt in our disordered social life it often means far
too much work. No doubt thousands of mothers are simply crushed by it.
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