A couple of weeks ago I overheard a conversation between some first time new moms. "She's already on cow's milk," said one, in the same tone used to discuss which girls were having sex back in high school. The reaction to this news was pretty much the same, too: her friends' eyes widened, and there were murmurs of disbelief and censure. Clearly, some renegade mom out there had stepped out of line and introduced dairy - brace yourselves - before six months. Shock, horror.
Actually, I shouldn't judge. Back when Leya was a newborn, I was possibly the most tediously highly strung person on the planet. I once forbid my father from switching on his iPad while in the same room as Leya, for fear the microwaves would enter her tender fontanel and cause untold damage, and when he reasonably pointed out that we were sitting in a large room and he was nowhere near her, I let loose with a diatribe about how he obviously didn't care for his granddaughter.
A severe reaction, but at nothing compared to how I responded to strangers whom I couldn't lecture. The first time I took Leya to a shopping centre, I hugged the perimeter of the stores like a hyped up FBI agent about to break down a door so that I could avoid the selfish, air-polluting cell phone users. Should one dare to take a call whilst standing near me - or, heaven forbid, in a lift or other area where space constraints prevented me from conspicuously stepping away to put distance between us - I would glare at them with hatred and anger in my eyes until they got the message, loud and clear, that their behaviour was antisocial in the extreme and the only fate fit for them was to be exiled to a gulag.
At the time, my husband had been comparing notes on babies one and two with some friends who had just had their second. They jokingly called it the pot plant, because it seemed to survive on little more than oxygen and an occasional feeding. I was appalled - since I was spending up to three hours a day simply staring at my baby (not counting the time dedicated to actually caring for her with feeds, baths, nappy changes etc), such words seemed blasphemy. Surely, people who treated their babies in such a cavalier manner - and then joked about it - were only marginally better than actual abusers.
And then I had Jessica. Poor little Jess, whom I usually call Michael Caine because I cannot for the life of me remember her name, and because her resemblance to the British actor is startling (actually, at first I thought she looked more like Stephen Fry than either me or James...either way, the kid has star quality).
Jessica cries and there is no running to consult Baby Sense or shedding a tear myself because the thought of her experiencing discomfort for even a second is too much for me to bear. There is no Googling every possible reason she may be niggly (a good thing actually - poor Leya was dragged to the paediatric neurology centre because she had a pronounced startle response and my Googling left me convinced that she had a rare epileptic disorder).
Actually, it's hugely liberating not to be so immersed in making sure she's receiving exactly the right amount of stimulation. When I read 'What to expect - The toddler years' recommendation for dealing with bad behaviour, my inadequacies as parent became all too apparent. "Should your child make a habit of pouring liquids out, point out -kindly yet firmly - that there is a difference between spilling something (which is acceptable) and pouring, which is naughty)," the book advises. In the fantasy world of What to Expect, the fictional toddler listens to his mommy's reasonable explanation and says "Hmm, you have a point. I didn't think about the negative impact that my behaviour has on those around me. I'll stop immediately. I'm so sorry for any frustration and trouble I've caused." In my reality, Leya greets my attempts at discipline by chanting "pooh pooh fanny wee bum" and mooning me.
Similarly ridiculous advice was given in a manual on baby massage which I recently dug up (while Leya was taken to massage class, poor Jess sometimes gets a random pat on the leg. Still, I have good intentions...) "If your baby starts crying during massage, welcome her, saying 'tell me all about it," the book sagely advises. Please. At the sound of a baby crying, the only thing I am going to welcome is a stiff shot of vodka.
I really feel bad that circumstances don't allow me to spend all morning sniffing Jess's hair and going on nature walks in the garden with her. But, on the upside, she's spared a lot of the pressure Leya was subjected to (on one website's advice, I sat her down at three weeks with a shopping pamphlet. The website had promised she would enjoy looking at the pictures of margarine and toilet paper, so when she didn't respond, I was concerned she may be less intelligent than we had hoped).
And, at the end of the day, she's still going to hate us and find us embarrassing when she turns 13, no matter what we do or don't do.
Actually, I shouldn't judge. Back when Leya was a newborn, I was possibly the most tediously highly strung person on the planet. I once forbid my father from switching on his iPad while in the same room as Leya, for fear the microwaves would enter her tender fontanel and cause untold damage, and when he reasonably pointed out that we were sitting in a large room and he was nowhere near her, I let loose with a diatribe about how he obviously didn't care for his granddaughter.
A severe reaction, but at nothing compared to how I responded to strangers whom I couldn't lecture. The first time I took Leya to a shopping centre, I hugged the perimeter of the stores like a hyped up FBI agent about to break down a door so that I could avoid the selfish, air-polluting cell phone users. Should one dare to take a call whilst standing near me - or, heaven forbid, in a lift or other area where space constraints prevented me from conspicuously stepping away to put distance between us - I would glare at them with hatred and anger in my eyes until they got the message, loud and clear, that their behaviour was antisocial in the extreme and the only fate fit for them was to be exiled to a gulag.
At the time, my husband had been comparing notes on babies one and two with some friends who had just had their second. They jokingly called it the pot plant, because it seemed to survive on little more than oxygen and an occasional feeding. I was appalled - since I was spending up to three hours a day simply staring at my baby (not counting the time dedicated to actually caring for her with feeds, baths, nappy changes etc), such words seemed blasphemy. Surely, people who treated their babies in such a cavalier manner - and then joked about it - were only marginally better than actual abusers.
And then I had Jessica. Poor little Jess, whom I usually call Michael Caine because I cannot for the life of me remember her name, and because her resemblance to the British actor is startling (actually, at first I thought she looked more like Stephen Fry than either me or James...either way, the kid has star quality).
Jessica cries and there is no running to consult Baby Sense or shedding a tear myself because the thought of her experiencing discomfort for even a second is too much for me to bear. There is no Googling every possible reason she may be niggly (a good thing actually - poor Leya was dragged to the paediatric neurology centre because she had a pronounced startle response and my Googling left me convinced that she had a rare epileptic disorder).
Actually, it's hugely liberating not to be so immersed in making sure she's receiving exactly the right amount of stimulation. When I read 'What to expect - The toddler years' recommendation for dealing with bad behaviour, my inadequacies as parent became all too apparent. "Should your child make a habit of pouring liquids out, point out -kindly yet firmly - that there is a difference between spilling something (which is acceptable) and pouring, which is naughty)," the book advises. In the fantasy world of What to Expect, the fictional toddler listens to his mommy's reasonable explanation and says "Hmm, you have a point. I didn't think about the negative impact that my behaviour has on those around me. I'll stop immediately. I'm so sorry for any frustration and trouble I've caused." In my reality, Leya greets my attempts at discipline by chanting "pooh pooh fanny wee bum" and mooning me.
Similarly ridiculous advice was given in a manual on baby massage which I recently dug up (while Leya was taken to massage class, poor Jess sometimes gets a random pat on the leg. Still, I have good intentions...) "If your baby starts crying during massage, welcome her, saying 'tell me all about it," the book sagely advises. Please. At the sound of a baby crying, the only thing I am going to welcome is a stiff shot of vodka.
I really feel bad that circumstances don't allow me to spend all morning sniffing Jess's hair and going on nature walks in the garden with her. But, on the upside, she's spared a lot of the pressure Leya was subjected to (on one website's advice, I sat her down at three weeks with a shopping pamphlet. The website had promised she would enjoy looking at the pictures of margarine and toilet paper, so when she didn't respond, I was concerned she may be less intelligent than we had hoped).
And, at the end of the day, she's still going to hate us and find us embarrassing when she turns 13, no matter what we do or don't do.
