“How old is he?” said the nice cab driver after I dropped my kid off at daycare.
“Time to have another one!”
Welcome to the Taxi Parenting Advice. These guys are the experts on that child-rearing and child-making shit, yo! These guys are, of course, related to the Taxi Relationship Advice reps who work at night and whose job is to validate drunk girl passengers who say things like, “fuck him just fuck him seriously, I don’t need him, fuck that guy.” (Them: “Beautiful woman like you? He doesn’t deserve you! Leave that guy.”)
The Taxi Parenting Advice guys are the guys who will breezily tell you about their litter of six and their wife who’s “not working” but staying home with the kids. They are the guys who give your guy a meaningful-eye-meaningful-eye-meaningful-eye in the mirror. They are the guys who, if you enter the cab alone, ask EVERY SINGLE TIME if you’re married and if you have any children and if you’re going to have more. They are the guys who ask how much daycare costs and ask why you’re working. They are the guys who will sometimes pull out their wallets as you pay them to show you Child 1, Child 2, Child 3, Child 4, Child 5 and Child 6.
The parenting advice comes in various forms:
Doom Advice: “It will be too late soon!”
Financial Advice: “You’ll find money!”
Nudge-nudge-wink-wink Advice: “Your husband knows what to do, no?”
Shaming Advice: “One is no good. They need someone to play with.”
You’re Stupid Advice: “Just one?!”
Cultural-crossover Advice: “You stay at home. Doesn’t your husband work?”
Reassuring Advice: “Don’t worry, you’ll change your mind.” (This one is often paired with Doom Advice)
So now that I’ve passed the Taxi Relationship Advice stage, and am full in the Taxi Parenting Advice stage, I can’t help but wonder what happens when I’m an old woman. I imagine they just drive you in complete silence to wherever you’re going. Bliss.