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This essay was originally published on Medium in 2021 and was cited in last week’s post. I wanted to give this a home here.
Holy crap, you’re pregnant. When they say it only takes one time, you are living proof. Whoever thought a couple chocolate-covered strawberries could mark the beginning of a new life phase? It’s unbelievable, scary, perhaps exciting, and sometimes dreadful, but there you are, with a lima bean wreaking havoc on your guts and emotions.
The aisles in children’s stores are an endless array of gadgets and do-dads which promise convenience and security while sporting the latest designs. Every manner of gentlemanly couture and brunching toddler lewks lines the racks, interspersed with matching caps, socks, and soft shoes. After your hopefully casualty-free sex reveal (because gender is a construct), compiling the all-important baby registry is next. The claims of all those tried and true bits lands straight on the list. Impractical outfits and expensive carriers dot the list as well.
Soon, the news is out there and a burgeoning belly which seems to scream “touch me” signals to all strangers that you require tips on how to raise your child. Luckily, no one is suggesting whiskey-soaked rags for a pacifier, but every facet of this new human’s life and your care of them is dissected.
My own pregnancies brought to light the real invasiveness of all those well-meaning hacks. There are no real cheat codes to raising a child. It is a continuous process of adjusting methods based on your circumstance, the child you have, and many other factors both inside and outside the home. It is complex, confusing, and no one has much figured out their first time around.
As parents, we all make a lot of product choices that speak to our sensibilities and propensities for paranoia. Stainless steel bottles? Cloth diapers? That was me. I hated the idea of sending a diaper to a landfill that would outlive generations of my family. I chose mostly sustainably and ethically produced wood toys, also deciding not to load up my child’s toy box. I would not have a child who was weighed down by stuff early on.
I made these decisions, as many do, during the course of my pregnancy. I also read the gamut of mommy blogs and medical profession articles on everything from cradle cap to hair tourniquets on toes. It was frankly, overwhelming. How did anyone ever get “good” at handling a baby? I realized that we all, along the courses of our journeys, developed methods suiting our lives. What worked for one could not work unilaterally. My children didn’t like to be swaddled. I know. Crazy.
From the other side of a gravid uterus, I saw how a new parent could be bombarded with information. Everyone from their sister’s hairdresser to their elderly neighbor knew best. It’s hard to know what’s right and trust your instincts. I mean, the people giving advice have more children, have already made their mistakes, and are fortunately offering their expertise.
I did not want to add to the noise. Of all the things I had to learn as a parent, I now only give new parents a single piece of advice:
This summarized the more high-level information I consumed. It was a guiding principle that has, over time, lead me to solid conclusions instead of a purse full of quick fixes. The advice has kept me accountable for what I do and say, putting the onus on me to improve myself first. I don’t just set the example, I try to embody it. When I am calm, when I am measured, when I am patient, I teach my child much more. I also learn a wealth of information it would take a lifetime to read.
Recently, I saw a meme where someone remarked with surprise at a young child reading a book. The parent made some pithy statement with a book in their hand as well. Children don’t hear what you say, but see what you do. While that is true, simply doing has not been enough. The most compliance I’ve gotten from my daughter on cleaning her room was when I helped foster persistence when facing a problem. I guide her sternly, but with patience and understanding. I allow breaks and validate her feelings on the task’s enormity. I don’t just dutifully clean my own room, or in the meme’s case, snuggle up to a summer reading classic, I give her tools to succeed and appreciate growth takes time. It wasn’t until I dug in and learned those things myself, was I equipped to help her in a positive way.
The most important part of training myself was a change of heart. I eventually moved beyond the more baby-centered topics and wondered what really happened after my child outgrew her stroller. I came across stories of older children, namely adolescents and teens, who suffered rejection by their parents. To be pregnant and imagine rejecting my daughter was unconscionable. I never wanted my child to want for a home. It was my job to love her even if the world didn’t. I not only wanted to love her, but who and what she cared about. It became apparent that I needed to spread love wherever she went.
Corny? Well, it gets worse.
Got to be there
To be there where love begins
And that’s everywhere she goes
I’ve got to be there so she knows
That when she’s with me, she’s home- “Got to Be There” by Michael Jackson
I first heard this song around the same time and needless to say, it made me very emotional. The lesson was to create a loving world so that she did not want for acceptance and support. The principle of training myself first made me guard my tone and my words. It helped me congratulate her for achievements and reassure her when she came up short. I have danced and skipped with her even when people were watching.
I am now revisiting this advice. Things have changed since I was pregnant with my daughter nearly a decade ago. She has a brother now. I am miles from the job I had then but have added many more stresses and a different title. I find myself exhausted and angry at times. I am more burnt out now than I have ever been, so much so that my daughter recently confided in my husband how distracted I was during what should have been play time. I was not embodying the example I strived to be before she was born.
My ups and downs have changed with the seasons and I work very hard to overcome all I face. But sometimes even a veteran needs a reminder. Long after the teething rings, this advice lives. In this instance, it is not a push to hurry up and get better. I am human. I am a work in progress. Instead, it reminds me to center myself, to interogate my own thinking, and take charge of who I become. I do it not just for myself, but for my children, so that first and foremost, as my best self, I am always there.
What’s next?
I am not very disciplined so who knows?
An essay on perspective
Fiction in progress
Poetry? Hmph. Perhaps.
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