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My baby isn't really a baby anymore
-- in just a few short days, she will be
one. And somewhere in the last
couple of months she went from a cuddly
little lump to writhing anaconda
with opinions. Tentative tastes of rice
cereal have transitioned into a
daily smorgasbord of human foods, some of
which invariably pollock our dining
room walls. Toys are no longer objects
of quiet contemplation, but are now
slated noisy deconstruction. Everything
that can be broken has been, and the
component parts reduced further still. Along the way she's also become a
hell of a lot of fun. We love taking her
new places and giving her new things
just to see what she'll do. Even the
mundane is suddenly miraculous. A
trip to the local home improvement store
to purchase yet another set of
child-proof cabinet latches becomes like a
day at Disneyland. There is just so
much to experience out there, and all of
it is so freaking cool. I never thought we'd get here. The
first few months were rocky on an epic
scale. Every experienced parent I
know assured me that it would get easier.
And it did, granted. But that tidbit
of advice is worthless at 3 a.m., when
you haven't slept for the better
part of a week and you are helpless before
a screaming newborn, whose cries
can't be soothed. At that point, what you
need most is a superpower -- the
ability to stop time so that you could catch
a nap, say -- not well-intentioned bon
mots from someone who is well rested
and taken a recent shower.
For even the most prepared expectant
parent, reality hits like a bear
digging through a dumpster,
shredding the contents of your life in its
hungry pursuit of a yummy chocolate
bar. Even the happiest, most competent
and freakishly stable new mom or dad
has had at least one dizzy moment
where they wondered how the hell it
all went wrong. Most mere mortals have
moments like that on an hourly
basis.
If you don't completely lose your
mind (and even if you do a little), you
can't help but learn a thing or two
over the course of a year. And I could
hardly call myself a parent if I
didn't feel compelled to share it:
1. It really does get better.
Really. Keep in mind that it will probably
get worse again, so absorb the
sunshine while you can.
(continued at right)
2. Martyrdom isn't its own reward.
Consider this one of the many places
where my philosophy diverges with
that of the Catholic church. For years,
women have been encouraged to live
vicariously through their families,
sublimating their needs for the
greater good. Needs, however, still have a
way of spurting out, often in
strange and damaging ways, which do more
damage than simply doing what you
need to do.
My shrink is often fond of trotting
out the old war-horse about airline
oxygen masks, about how the flight
attendants caution you to secure your
own yellow cup before attending to
your children. While that's true, it
calls to my mind images of what I'd
actually be doing in the event that the
aircraft lost its pressurization.
The terror kind of occludes my shrink's
point, at least to me.
So, in short, do what you need to
do. Paint. Read. Walk. Sit and stare at
the walls for all I care. Do
whatever it takes so that you can breathe.
Screw the people who want you to
shut up and take what they give you.
Which leads to...
3. Everyone wants to tell you how to raise your baby. On one of my first mall outings with the newborn, as I was walking back to my car, a large older woman muttered just loud enough that I needed to put socks on the baby. Rather than point out that socks had been on the child's feet when we entered the mall, and that she was more than welcome to figure out for herself where they'd been stripped off and dropped, I flashed a nervous smile and slunk back to the car, feeling like I had no business being a mom. The same holds true for the kind soul on my favorite bike trail who informed me that the baby needed to wear a hat, because she'd be blinded each time we walked into a clearing. Or that the baby'd be sub-moronic because I didn't breastfeed through the first year. Or that day care would make her maladaptive and mean. Or that I was a selfish shrew who had no business bearing young because I went back to work.
(3b. Moms are scrutinized in ways that dads never are. I can count on the fingers of one fist the number of times my husband has been taken to task for going back to work after the blessed event. We could send the baby to a really good trade school if we had a dime for each time I have been. At this point, there is nothing that I do for the niblet that he couldn't do equally well. Some things, he does much, much better and vice versa. That's why there's two of us. Still, I'm the one who is a bad parent because I dare have other interests.)
Fine, I say. Your choices are yours. And mine -- for better or worse -- are mine. Unless my pediatrician cautions me that I am doing something dangerous or foolish or both, I'm going to continue to follow one of the few pieces of advice he's ever passed on. Trust your instincts. The rest will follow.
4. Keep only two parenting books in your house. One should be a good reference tome, preferably with full-color pictures of rash taxonomy and a primer on poop. The other should be one parenting guru whose advice you agree with. More than that and you'll just make yourself crazy.
5. Like horseshoes, close enough counts. At the risk of sounding like a bad self-help book, the journey is very , very, very long. If you worry about every pebble on the path, you're going to be too stressed out to enjoy the ride. There is a lot of room for course corrections, once you start to rediscover where the hell you stashed the map. It will all be OK once you find your footing.
Watch out for that first step,
though... it's a doozy.
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About the Author:
Adrienne Martini has been a theatre technician, apprentice massage
therapist, bookstore bookkeeper, and a pizza joint waitress. Eventually,
someone started paying her for her words and an editorial mercenary was
born. She has written theatre reviews and features for the Austin
Chronicle, blurbs about tofurkey and bottled water for Cooking Light
and a piece about knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. During
the day, she fields freelance gigs and is gainfully employed as an editor at
Metro Pulse, Knoxville, Tennessee's weekly voice. At all hours, she
is mom to Maddy, who will be a big one- year- old in June, and wife to
Scott, who declines the mention of his age. Email Adrienne at: shaken@austinmama.com
