When I had my first child, there were certain things I knew I would have to give up. Impromptu trips to Vegas (at least the seedy, AKA “fun” parts of Vegas). Strip Monopoly. Late nights at the bar listening to a new band. And while this may sound like a lament, to be honest I actually wasn’t too bummed about giving up things like that, because I knew that in exchange I would be gaining something priceless and irreplaceable. No, I’m not talking about all of those “magical” moments with my kids, although, I suppose, I did get those, too. (Some of them.) What I’m talking about gaining is the knowledge that finally, at long last, I would be free of the guy who—while you’re trying to appreciate the cool new band that is playing at that late night at the bar in the seedy part of Vegas—leans over and breathes his PBR breath into your face to say, “Yeah, I was into these guys like five years ago. They used to be so much better when they only sang in Swedish.”
To be honest, this was a joy that I anticipated from the very beginning: even though I knew I would soon be up to my armpits in dirty diapers, I also knew that at least I would no longer also be up to my armpits in American Spirits and Soy Chai Lattes. Even though I knew I would soon be pushing around a stroller the size of a Hummer, at least I also knew I would no longer have to hear someone rave about their new 75 pound “fixie” bike. And even though I knew I would soon be hearing all about disposable versus cloth, at least I also knew I wouldn’t have to listen to the pros and cons of Carhartts versus Dickies anymore. In other words, at least I would be spared hipsters.
Or so I thought. As it turns out, in my anticipatory glee I had failed to reckon on the most annoying form of Hipster life known to man; I had failed to reckon on the phenomenon known as the Hipster parent. Yes, you read that right: there are also Hipster Parents.
A Hipster Parent is even worse than a regular Hipster because, typically, when you encounter a regular Hipster you are at the bar, which means that there is a good chance you will have a drink in your hand. A Hipster Parent, on the other hand, is usually encountered outside of the elementary school, a place where drinking is highly frowned upon—trust me on this. (Although, believe me, there have been times when I have seriously considered it—frowns and all.) This is especially true when I know I’m about to hear, yet again, about how your kid has never watched TV, eaten meat, or been within twenty feet of a can of soda because you are raising them according to this new theory of child-raising you heard about five years ago. You could tell me the name, but it probably wouldn’t mean anything to me, because it’s really obscure, and, besides, until recently it was only available in Swedish. In fact, it only got translated into English about fifteen minutes ago, which is really too bad, because now everyone is going to do it—or at least try. Of course, they’ll probably end up leaving out some of the important parts—like only wearing primary colored organic cotton clothes—and the whole effect will be ruined.
Yeah.
Turns out that the worst thing about Hipster Parents is the same as the worst thing about Hipsters in general: they have no idea that they’re hipsters. As far as they are concerned, they are just very, very serious about music/parenting. Just like you. Or rather, just like you would be.
If only you cared enough to learn Swedish.