To which several generations worth of parents would say: Duh. Parenthood is filled with blissful, transcendent moments, family ticklefests on the bed and games of catch in the backyard. But on a minute-to-minute basis, it’s largely food service, logistics, tantrum management, and arguments about personal grooming.

And unconditional love, which is hard to overstate.

But happiness has nothing to do with it.

Yet the “news’’ that parenting is hard, whenever it comes up, is generally received with triumph. The comments on the New York Magazine website — which seem to stem from a certain Brooklyn-based demographic — are filled with self-congratulation from people who declare themselves too wise to procreate. They’re also rife with theoretical discussions about whether parenthood is a “selfish’’ act. (A thought experiment for twentysomethings with no kids: How selfish would you feel while you were wiping up somebody else’s snot?)

Even parents, of late, are quick to self-flagellate; most mommy and daddy blogs document the many ways that parenthood highlights our failings. Last year saw a spate of memoirs that celebrate parental imperfections. The Internet and bookstores are loaded with parenting advice, as if childrearing is a set of problems to be solved instead of a set of experiences, good and bad.

Then there’s the hand-wringing over “helicopter parenting,’’ a term that has expanded far beyond the high-strung moms who badger their grown kids’ college professors. These days, people who spot their kids on the jungle gym, or tote them to music and art lessons, are equally suspect. Try to be attentive and you run the risk of ruining your children’s carefree bliss.

It’s as if everyone longs for the good old days of benign neglect — though when “Mad Men’’ returns to TV this month, we might remember how relatively blissful modern parenthood can be. Yes, life is tough for working parents — yes, we could use more social policies that promote a better work-life balance — but it was also hard, in different ways, for mothers who lacked the option of careers. In Betty Draper’s day, the notion of a work-life balance hadn’t been articulated. Fathers weren’t expected to help at bath time. And parenthood wasn’t a conscious choice so much as an obligation.

Having a choice is a luxury, and there is no right or wrong one. Kids are hardly a prerequisite for a life of meaning. Deciding not to have them is not a selfish act.

But it seems we’ve become too quick to dwell on the choice and its consequences — for your career, your love life, your constantly-calibrated sense of bliss. That presupposes that having kids is a decision you can manage with a pro/con list, or that you should only have kids if you have a good reason and an airtight argument. My own thought process, six years ago, had to do with wanting an essential human experience. But there are plenty of human experiences I’m happy to pass up, such as skydiving and getting a tattoo.

Which is to say that having kids isn’t rational at all. It’s a deep-seated, primal urge, something you succumb to, even though you’re relatively certain it will ruin your social life.

Actually, it doesn’t — it just changes your social life into something that often happens in the dining room while the kids are parked in front of a DVD. And parenthood does have advantages beyond those fleeting moments of transcendence. It helps you to connect to your community. It forces you to meet your neighbors. It fills your house with laughter. It’s an excellent excuse for buying toys.

The trouble comes largely from expecting too much. Reading too many studies. Overthinking. Which might be the best argument for parenthood I can muster. Have kids, and don’t worry: You’ll no longer have time to think.

Joanna Weiss can be reached at weiss@globe.com.