There’s an unwritten social rule that says you shouldn’t make rude or inappropriate comments about other people’s children.
Here’s a common scenario: a coworker has just had their first baby and feels the need to show photos to everyone. The baby is… not cute. The head looks a bit misshapen, the hair is dark and seems to melt into the eyebrows. Chances are he’ll grow up and become a magazine-cover kind of kid. But for now? He’s ugly.
What do you say?
“Wow, he’s beautiful—congratulations!”
Or just “Congratulations!” and skip the commentary altogether?
Or do you say, “Well, he’s a bit funny-looking now, but babies change and he’ll probably grow into his features”?
Most parents see their children as the most beautiful beings on earth. But what if your coworker asks directly:
“So, what do you think? Is he cute? Does he look like me?”
Do you lie? Do you stay neutral and say it’s too early to tell? Or do you tell the truth?
A close friend of mine recently gave birth. We’ve known each other for over 18 years—we’re basically adults together. We’ve always been brutally honest with one another, and we’ve valued that. We’ve told each other when we gained weight, got a terrible haircut, or dressed completely wrong. That honesty has always been one of the strengths of our friendship. Sometimes you genuinely don’t realize how bad a makeup look is unless someone tells you.
Before giving birth, she asked me to promise that I would be honest and tell her if her baby turned out to be ugly. I didn’t even hesitate. That’s how we’ve always been with each other. I said yes.
Later, I mentioned this to another friend, who was horrified. She said you can’t do that—that hearing her baby is ugly would hurt her deeply. And in general, she’s right. That does hurt most people.
But in our relationship, it would have been more painful for her to see it herself and hear me say, “Oh no, he’s beautiful,” knowing it wasn’t true.
Luckily for everyone involved, she gave birth to an absolutely gorgeous baby boy—advertising-level cute. I’m not particularly fond of children in general, but this kid is genuinely adorable and funny.
Now, back to our sheep—which in my case means my dogs.
I have two greyhounds: long, skinny, awkward-looking creatures with tiny heads and very long necks. People often think they’re starving, but that’s just the breed. To me, all dogs are beautiful—unlike children—even old dogs, blind dogs, three-legged dogs.
If I were to rank dog breeds purely by looks, greyhounds probably wouldn’t make my top three. But that’s not the point. The point is their gaze, their intelligence, the way they curl up on my chest, and all the experiences I would never have had without them. Not to mention the unconditional love I give them and receive from them.
One day, I was talking to a relative who said she simply doesn’t understand why anyone would keep animals in the house—she believes it’s better to raise a child. I respect her opinion. It’s perfectly fine that she doesn’t want animals in her home.
In my home, my dogs are full-fledged family members.
Then, out of nowhere, she added that not only are they dogs, but they’re ugly dogs. Maybe by canine beauty standards—just like human ones—my two aren’t exactly Miss and Mister. But they are mine. My children.
It hurt deeply, and it made me think: what if I had told her that her son was ugly? How would that have made her feel?
Maybe comparing children to dogs is unacceptable to some people. But perhaps this isn’t really about that. Maybe it’s about love—love for a child, a dog, a partner, or a friend.
To me, my dogs are my children. I would never put them second—not even after other family members. I chose them. I committed to them. Just like parents (hopefully) choose and commit to their children.