You know those moms who totally get how to be moms, how to take their babies places, how to have social lives and still make sure their babies nap? You know those moms who are totally unruffled by this parenting thing, as if this were their seventh child and they’ve seen and done it all before? They arrive at parties on time, carrying just what they need but no more in small, stylish diaper bags, smiling and content, with perfectly behaved babies. They speak calmly, and they never seem tired, grumpy or, god forbid, uncertain. I really. Really. Really. Want. To be one of those moms.
Instead, I worry and wonder. I ask the pediatrician, “Will the noise from the subway brakes damage his hearing?” And then, even though she assures me it won’t (“Of course not! He’s a New Yorker!”), I cover his ears when a train passes just in case. And really, how am I supposed to know whether 11 degree weather is dangerous for babies, or whether it’s ok to take him to a hockey game? If he misses too many naps, will he be cranky for the rest of my life? If he screams in public, will people throw things at me or whisper about what a bad mother I am? It’s below freezing these days, so when I go out with him I wonder, where am I going to change him if he has an epic poop? (Answer: on a windowsill in a coffee shop bathroom.) Where am I going to breastfeed him if he gets hungry? (Answer: pretty much anywhere. Except not the subway, yet.) I’ve never done these things with a baby before, and it’s my job, nay, my obsession, to keep him safe and alive.
And when I don’t worry, bad stuff happens! Like when he was two months old and we blithely went to a holiday party, ending up stranded on a sidewalk in a blizzard 30 blocks from home. Worrying is preventive medicine! Yet I’m crestfallen if people notice my worries, or say things like, “You’re one of those moms!” Because worrying and being tense are embarrassing flaws. I just want to shake the person and say, “I’m not one of those moms! It’s just that the world is so dangerous!”
So you can imagine my stress level going into this weekend, when we planned to take a train to Connecticut (carrying all the baby crap! trudging to the subway station in the snow! and what if he cries on the train!), go to a Yale-Harvard hockey game (the noise! the lack of naps! the potential for meltdown! where will I feed him?), sleep at Lindsay’s house (what if the bed is too soft and he dies of SIDS?), take the train back (!!!), and go to a Superbowl party in Hell’s Kitchen (noise, no naps, meltdowns!) before finally coming home. I think Robin was steeling herself in anticipation of my incessant tooth-gnashing. But oh, how I wanted to be calm. I resolved to change — instantly.
“Robin,” I said, “if I get stressed this weekend, I’m just going to tell myself, BE MELLOW.”
“Um, okay honey. Do you think it will work?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should try something more specific, like ‘Our baby is not in any danger.'”
Robin sputtered.
“Okay, okay,” I said, “How about something more reasonable, like ‘It’s no big deal.'” Robin nodded and mumbled something polite.
So that was my plan. It’s no big deal, I chanted inwardly the day before the trip. It’s no big deal.
And guess what? It wasn’t. In fact, it was pretty much perfect. The subway was fine; Miles loves the subway. The train was even better; he was a celebrity on our train car. And the hockey game he mostly slept through, only jumping with alarm when Yale scored and the crowd shrieked and hooted with delight. I fed him on bench by the concession stand as little boys wrestled like hyperactive puppies, practically toppling onto us about a million times. And it was all no big deal. He did not die of SIDS, he napped beautifully, and he was passed around and admired at the Superbowl party. The best part of the whole weekend was that somehow, magically, I acted like the mellow mom I wish I were. No, it was more than that. I was mellow.
Maybe it’s because I realized at some point that he’s not a brand-new baby any more. He’s been around the block a few times, and we don’t have to focus so intensely on keeping him alive. He is, knock on wood, fingers crossed, here to stay. And if I still cover his ears when the subway brakes screech a little too loudly … it’s no big deal.
I don’t know any moms that are as mellow and on-top-of-it as you describe. We all worry and fret, we all feel uncertain at times, and we all hold ourselves to an impossible standard! Right? Or maybe I just believe this because it makes me feel better about myself, sort of like how I think “Hardly any babies sleep through the night! Only a tiny minority, really!”
Yes, that mom may very well be only in my mind. But she’s a powerful presence there!
Saved by the Davidson mumble again! (See “Robin nodded and mumbled something polite.”)
Though I confess that the walk to V’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen is more than I’d willingly do again with that much stuff to carry. I appreciate you always going along with my insanity despite the worry it causes you.
And I apologize for thrusting our son into the air after Yale’s decisive third-period goal and making him cry. At least he’ll always have a game puck to commemorate the experience.
Oh, poodle — you were wacky long before perfect little Miles was born.
You are a totally rockin’ writer. And I concur with all your worries. Just remember that he has an immune system and the ability to cry to get your attention.
Someone told me once that new moms innately protect their children by being able to imagine every danger in a new situation. Oh…the mental images of seeing your baby in danger are haunting and exhausting….but it seems to work. By being “overprotective” you are being a good mama. I think most mamas (myself included) seem to relax with time and experience but it is hard to endure for the first few months.
BTW…love your blog!
You won’t be chill until about 1 year old, and you realize kids are fairly durable. So are babies but they deceive you until later. I still have crazy mother moments — they just involve different things now.
On a side note, there’s a really good article in the back editions of Brain,Child that discusses authors writing about your kids and natural limits.
I am reminded of it as I think of Miles reading about his poop explosions when he is older.
My daughter at 7, already prefaces what she is going to say by asking me whether I am going to post it on Facebook.
🙂
First, this is an awesome post. Wonderfully expressive of what I’m sure so many parents feel and so well written!
Secondly, RJs right. 😉 And we love all the wackiness!
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