Someone writing for The New York Times loves being a mother, and that is why the Times' readers hate her.  In perhaps the most robust, earthy, energetic essay the paper has recently published, titled "Motherhood Isn't Sacrifice, It's Selfishness," Karen Rinaldi, a fertile, competent, joyful woman, explains how having children is not the worst thing to ever happen to a lady, which caused a host of inferior women to go bananas.

Comments ranged from motherhood is the most difficult job of all to she must be wealthy to saying she was pretentious and elitist.  All of these, it turns out, are true – if you do not like your children or any children, if you are completely unaware that coal miners exist and that some people fight in wars, if you think money makes mothering easy or magical or that handing your children to daycares is normal and healthy, if you are completely out of touch with your biological self, or if you're completely incompetent.  In short, it could be a terrible article only to a terrible woman, bad at reading and breeding; a worse wife; and an even worse mother.

The way many women speak these days, you would think the baby was born with a gun in hand and holding them for ransom.  The truth is, it's nearly the other way around, and every baby who's conceived has got a scalpel to his throat.  The Spartans, probably the most backward society of people who ever lived, so ugly that they made us question whether the invading Persians were actually better, used to throw their babies in the garbage if the babies were weak or defective.  The modern white woman has access to every kind of contraception and finally abortion, yet not only does she believe that killing a disabled baby is somehow more offensive than killing a healthy one, but she has a healthy baby and then spends her lifetime telling us how hard it is to have one.

The question is, why?  Why go through all the trouble of pregnancy and childbirth and dealing with a squealing brat to let us know that you have a squealing brat?  The answer is because modern women, like their modern counterparts, the video-game playing, bro-raving, useless modern men, are as incapable of handling marriage and children as these "men" are at handling politics and women – but children cannot write comments for The New York Times, so nobody knows how much women have degenerated.

As such, it's often said that few modern men are a match for their grandpas.  Well, few women in America are a match for their grandmas, especially if their grandmas were foreigners.  Men do not degenerate alone in a vacuum of good parenting.  We have always had our match, and it's the woman who can't look her baby in the face and feel his fingers wrap around her pinky and admit up front the kid is worth the trouble and that she's got it under control.  The modern man has no brain.  The modern woman has no heart.  The Scarecrow is married to the Tin Man.

This total out-of-touchness with our biological purpose is puzzling for a society so consumed with sexual rights.  It's as if everyone suddenly became so enthralled with making baseballs that nobody had time for baseball, or any clue how to play it.  These women, so childish that they completely dissociate the joy of sex from the joy of having children, believe that honeymoons are supposed to last forever, that matrons should rival teenagers in sexual appeal, that sterility somehow makes a woman more of a woman, that a kiss from an adoring child is poor compensation for not working a 9-to-5, that a sizable pension and a nursing home are all you need at the bleak end of your life, that killing your own children should come without emotional consequences or health risks – that motherhood, the raising of a person as complex as yourself, desiring his own things, dreaming his own dreams, with his own theories and his own virtues and his own vices, beginning totally selfishly and (if you're any good at it) eventually becoming a decent person, is going to be easy; and that one of the main reasons for youth is not to prepare you for the struggles of raising youths.  

No, this weak-kneed and whiny ignoramus, living life from day to day believing simultaneously, somehow, in evolution and the extreme importance of sexuality, yet completely severing the value of one's seed from the idea of being happy, cannot be any kind of progress, or enlightenment, or female empowerment.  She has no pride in her family line or her race or her country or even her biological power, no joy in waking up and seeing a little version of herself and her lover, no ecstasy in seeing a man she loves and dreaming of someday having his babies.  What do they want?  Girl's fun.  When do they want it?  All the time.  How do they mother?  Begrudgingly.

Thus, they envy the strong women, made up and still fit, pushing strollers and laughing in the marketplace, beautiful beyond comparison not only for their looks, but for the fact that they made it, that they have everything and do everything and enjoy everything, that they've kept themselves together and are indomitable in the face of difficulty and loved by the people weak women believe are "too difficult" to enjoy.  The things so central to our existence and almost inevitable in our lifetimes do not ruin this goddess or wear her out perpetually or make her envious of teenagers – the hallmark of a true loser.  She enjoys the present more than the past and looks forward to the future.  She has made a decision, and because she has self-respect, she lives with it.  Her husband loves her, and other men are jealous of her husband.

This is why the women of the New York Times hate Karen Rinaldi: because her essay is the exemplary picture of an earthy and joyous woman, and beyond this the kind of woman that every smart and healthy man is interested in marrying – and they are not she.

Jeremy Egerer is the author of the troublesome essays on Letters to Hannah, and he welcomes followers on Twitter and Facebook.