For me, having a child is a really great responsibility because

Host: The rain came down in a slow, deliberate rhythm — a soft percussion on the roof of the small cottage kitchen. Inside, the air was warm with the scent of tea and bread, the steam rising from the kettle like a spirit too tired to leave. A lamp burned low on the wooden table, casting soft shadows across two faces — Jack and Jeeny — who sat opposite one another in that quiet, golden hour when words seemed to matter more than time.

Host: The room itself was filled with small signs of life: a child’s drawing pinned to the wall, a single shoe by the door, a teddy bear on the windowsill staring out at the gray world beyond.

Jeeny: (softly) “Kate Bush once said, ‘For me, having a child is a really great responsibility because you’ve got something there that is depending on you for information and love until a certain age when it goes to school.’”
(She glances toward the drawing on the wall — a sun with too many rays, smiling with too many teeth.) “It’s funny how she called it information and love. As if both are nourishment — one for the mind, one for the heart.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “That’s because they are. A kid doesn’t just need to be fed or protected. They need to be understood.”

Jeeny: “And loved in ways that teach them how to love themselves.”

Jack: “Exactly. You’re not raising a person; you’re shaping a mirror. One that will reflect back everything you’ve ever shown them — kindness, fear, curiosity, all of it.”

Host: The kettle whistled, sharp but brief, and Jeeny rose to pour two cups of tea. She moved slowly, deliberately, her eyes still distant — not from distraction, but from the weight of reflection.

Jeeny: “You know what’s terrifying, Jack? It’s not the sleepless nights or the tantrums. It’s the thought that every word, every silence, every tone becomes a part of their story.”

Jack: “Yeah. Parents don’t realize they’re the first language their child learns. Before words, before reason — just tone, touch, and presence.”

Jeeny: “And absence.”

Jack: (looking up) “Yeah. That too.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, tapping harder against the window — a steady, intimate rhythm, like the world breathing through the glass.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what Kate meant. The responsibility isn’t just care — it’s influence. You’re their first truth-teller. Their first example of what love means and what safety feels like.”

Jack: “And if you get it wrong, they spend the rest of their life trying to unlearn it.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Or trying to replicate it.”

Host: The light in the room seemed to soften, reflecting off the puddles outside, the rain creating little ripples of gold on the windowpane.

Jack: “You ever think love is information too? Maybe she wasn’t separating them — maybe she meant love is how we teach.”

Jeeny: “I like that. Love as the first curriculum.”

Jack: “And the hardest to forget.”

Host: The two sat in silence for a while, the only sound the clinking of spoons against porcelain. Outside, the storm seemed to settle, as if listening.

Jeeny: “You know, when a child asks a question — why is the sky blue? or why do people cry? — they’re not looking for facts. They’re looking for reassurance that the world makes sense.”

Jack: “And that they belong in it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And for a few years, you’re their entire universe. Until one day, they go to school — and the world starts teaching them its own answers.”

Jack: “That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Letting go of being their everything.”

Jeeny: “It’s both heartbreak and pride. You spend years building a home inside their heart, only for them to walk out of it — but still carry its key.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked quietly — patient, measured, unconcerned. Time, as always, kept teaching its own lessons.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what makes parenthood sacred — it’s the only role you have to outgrow for it to succeed.”

Jeeny: “Beautifully said.”

Jack: “No, tragically said.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, sometimes.”

Host: She smiled faintly, her eyes tracing the child’s drawing again — the sun, the house, two stick figures holding hands. The kind of art only innocence can produce — unfiltered, unafraid.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how children draw the sun and the people smiling no matter what? Even when the world outside doesn’t?”

Jack: “Because they don’t paint what they see — they paint what they hope.”

Jeeny: “And then we grow up and start painting what we fear.”

Jack: (sighing) “That’s the tragedy of growing older — we stop seeing the world as editable.”

Jeeny: “And the miracle of raising a child — you get to see it all fresh again. You relearn wonder through their eyes.”

Host: The lamp flickered, briefly throwing their shadows across the wall — two figures surrounded by books, drawings, and silence. The shadow of the teddy bear stretched long beside theirs, like a small, eternal witness.

Jack: “You think it’s easier now — raising kids? With all the books, advice, experts?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s harder. Because the world is louder. And love has to compete with noise.”

Jack: “So what wins?”

Jeeny: “The one that stays.”

Host: Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried weight — the kind of truth that doesn’t need volume to echo.

Jack: “You ever want kids, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Yes. But not for legacy. For wonder. I want to remember what it feels like to believe again — without irony, without exhaustion. Just… belief.”

Jack: “And responsibility?”

Jeeny: “That’s part of it. Responsibility isn’t burden — it’s proof you matter to someone.”

Jack: (quietly) “And they matter enough to remake you.”

Host: The rain began to fade, leaving only the faint dripping from the eaves — soft, persistent, eternal. The smell of wet earth drifted in through the cracked window.

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, Jack. When Kate said a child depends on you for information and love, she was really talking about creation. Not of a person — but of a connection that teaches both ways. You teach them the world, and they teach you what’s worth keeping in it.”

Jack: “So love is reciprocal learning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The first and last kind.”

Host: The light dimmed further, leaving the room bathed in a gentle amber hush. The child’s drawing seemed to glow faintly in the quiet — its sun still smiling, untouched by weather or time.

Host: And as they sat there — two souls suspended between reflection and reverence — Kate Bush’s words seemed to hum through the silence:

that parenthood is not ownership,
but translation;
that love is the first language,
and information the way it speaks;
and that the truest act of creation
is not giving life,
but teaching it how to shine.

Host: The rain stopped. The kettle cooled.

And outside, in the quiet after the storm,
a single child’s laughter carried faintly through the mist —
proof that the lesson had begun.