Julius Caesar stood before the Rubicon River on the tenth of January in the year 49 BC. He had a decision to make. Would he lead the 13th Imperial Roman Legion Gemina across, south, toward Rome? If he did, he would break the law and this would destroy his Imperium, the authority he had over his legion. He would become an enemy of the state by this action. Crossing over would mean civil war; he would and now had to march on to Rome to take the city. But Caesar was successful. As a result, much of the Senate fled Rome with fear in their hearts. Julius gained momentum against all odds and eventually won the civil war. 'Passing or crossing the Rubicon' is a phrase still used today. The river itself does not represent much today, it is a shabby little ditch meandering through a polluted stretch of Italian industrial land. But the phrase referring to this revolutionary and risky action (Thanks to Wikipedia for this historical information, this was not ready knowledge) is still used today. The phrase "Passing the Rubicon" also applies to starting a family. The idea of the pink cloud is a persistent myth. A multi-billion dollar commercial industry profits from the false idea that having children and getting through the tropical years is a wonderful time. Few dare to contradict this dominant discourse. Because if a dissenting voice is heard it may say something about your parenting or even worse about your relationship with your children's co-educator/caregiver. Shame and taboo are two dominant behemoths in the land of parenting. So what is the truth? The birth and tropical years of a family are a bloody, extremely exhausting and anxiety-provoking exercise, drenched in sweat, vomit, excrement and urine, tidal waves of stress hormones, tears, with daily strings of victories and losses that evoke violent-or at least regularly violent-feelings. For many parents, it feels like climbing Kilimanjaro every day. And then returning to basecamp, or what's left of it. As the author of this book, as I write these harsh words, I also feel the need to communicate that paradoxically, parenthood is also the most beautiful thing that can happen to you. But to call it that, the most beautiful thing that can happen to you, is again a weakness. In short, the infinite alternation of exaltation (what a heeeeeeerlijk child) and frustration (the wordless "aaaarggghhh") that parenthood evokes is hard to put into words. The main, all-changing, over-the-top kicking effect of the transition to parenthood is to use Donald J. Trump's somewhat limited vocabulary "Huge" (Did I really mention his name in this writing? Yes. So unnecessarily). An ocean of responsible is the reality after the arrival of the first child. Both parents float on small boats on this immense ocean of the world. And it is foggy- I hadn't mentioned that-you can't see an arm's width away at first. You may hear some shouts and cries from your fellow educator and caregiver, but you hardly have the time and inclination to listen to them. You know you don't know anything yourself, but you think you know that your partner isn't right anyway. Screw the baby books. Screw preconception. Welcome to the boat called "Grey Area," the substance of which parenthood is made, the wide seas where conditions are almost never constant.