Pregnancy hormones wreak havoc on my emotions. I’m already this sensitive, empathetic, wears her heart on her sleeve and her emotions on her face kind of girl, but throw in some crazy pinging hormones and I’m overly emotional for no good reason except, well, huh… just because. ::cries::
Oh, it’s probably not quite that bad, but it certainly feels like it. But it makes me wonder why my hormones work that way-- feeling as if every word said in jest is meant to break my heart and every television commercial is designed to flay the skin from my emotional soul-- instead of going the way of the bitch and making me angry and violent. Hmm. Shouldn’t I be all mama bear protective right now instead of helpless mewling kitten?? Please? Or even better, the bluebird of freakin’ happiness glowing from maternal joy. That would be nice, too. (Very nice for those who have to deal with me, I’m sure.)
As I remember, this hormonal stuff ebbs and flows and eventually passes entirely, though it seems to have started much earlier this time, so who knows how it’ll go for the rest of the pregnancy. Maybe the hormones will work in my favor and make me a happy, nesting little bluebird-- god knows there is a lot of nesting to do before this baby comes.
It’s an interesting social experiment to tell people you’re pregnant. When I got pregnant with Patrick the response was overwhelmingly positive. Good wishes were heaped on me and I basked in it, hoping all that positive energy would fend off anything bad from happening. I’m superstitious like that. I’d had a miscarriage the previous year, so I know those early good wishes were tempered with caution-- much like my acceptance of those good wishes. But as the months wore on, others showed such joy in my increasingly growing condition. Not in a mean way-- in that way a pregnant woman walking into a room will garner attention and inspire smiles. It was nice.
So I find myself a bit perplexed this time around. Granted, it’s still early (just over 8 weeks) and there is still reason for plenty of caution. But the responses I’ve gotten to this pregnancy have not been as positive as they were with Patrick. In fact, there is an undercurrent of negativity in some of the things people have said. “Again? Wow, you’re really in for it!” “I’m going to laugh if this one doesn’t sleep as well as Patrick.” “This one won’t be as good as Patrick.” “You’re never going to have time for yourself now!” “That’s crazy!” And so on.
I suppose having back-to-back babies at my age is a bit of a shocker for anyone (including me) and perhaps no one quite knows how to take it. Patrick could be seen as the miracle baby after the miscarriage and considering my age, plus the fact that I’ve been married forever and it seemed certain we’d never have children. (Never mind that we weren’t actively trying to have children most of those years.) So if Patrick is the miracle, this pregnancy would be, what? It confuses people, I suppose.
The negative comparisons to Patrick bother me more than the rest. There is almost a malicious glee in some of those comments. Having a baby who is an excellent sleeper seems to bother people, whether they have children or not. Why is that? So now I’m being heaped with all these warnings that second babies aren’t like first babies-- they’re worse. They never sleep, they cry all the time, they aren’t as happy as their older siblings, they are completely different in every way. I have joked that the next baby will be a terror-- but I find it shocking that other people feel compelled to say such things.
The negative stuff isn’t the norm, though sometimes it feels like it when I get back to back comments from people. There have been many, many happy wishes and I’m grateful for every one, perhaps even more so this time around. Knowing what the months will bring in terms of worry and stress, I appreciate all the positive energy I can get. I think the unkind comments are so jarring because they’re so unexpected. Even if it’s said in a joking way, a wish for me to have a baby who never sleeps feels like a curse. Or maybe it’s just my overwrought pregnancy hormones taking things too personally. It’s certainly possible.
Come what may, I don’t regret telling people as early as I did about this pregnancy. I will bask in the good wishes of the people who are genuinely happy for me and let that good energy deflect those who aren’t. And I will keep my fingers crossed for a baby who is healthy and happy and sleeps as well as his brother.
Patrick had a play date at our house on Monday with three other little girls, ages almost 1, 2 and 3 and a 1/2. Can I just say that play dates for one year olds are kind of pointless? At this age, he’s not interested in playing with other children--he’s only interested in the fact that other children are playing with his toys!! The horror! Patrick and his almost-one-year old friend Sydney weren’t at all interested in each other and were only in the same vicinity when they shared a mutual interest. Below, they were both watching Jay abandon me leave to go to the store.
Also, play dates are a bit like herding noisy cats. Children scattered hither and yon, constantly needing to be relocated to the main play area again and again. (Can you tell I’m not a big fan of the play date?) Oh, it wasn’t so bad-- just far noisier with 4 children than with my one solitary child who does not yet know how to turn on the toys that make noise. A skill that he will apparently learn by the time he hits 2. Of course, I think play dates will be more fun for all of us when he’s a bit older. Apparently, at this age children engage in what is called parallel play, playing adjacent to other children but not actually playing with other children. Of course, the only time Patrick was adjacent to another child was when that child had one of his toys. Oh, the horror!
I have a friend who had a child around the same time I did and who now is a big fan of baby play dates-- perhaps because they now take the place of adult play dates for her. I’d much prefer adult conversation in a quiet restaurant, but it seems any time I suggest it, the conversation comes back around to baby play dates. Ah well. Different parenting styles, I suppose. I love this little guy, but I crave my adult play dates-- something I’ve had a serious shortage of lately.
I don’t have a parenting style. I pretty much let the kid do his own thing unless it is a) dangerous or b) extremely loud. (I have an aversion to loud noise. This is not a good thing when one has a child.) I try to avoid letting the child get into situations that are fraught with mortal danger and I try to avoid giving him toys that beep and scream and play screechy music. Can I claim that as a parenting style? No? Hmm.
Let’s see. I also believe in giving unconditional love, whether in the form of hugs or tummy tickles or leaving the house 15 minutes later than I intended to hold him up to the light switch for a rousing game of turning the lights on and off. I don’t have huge goals for my one year old beyond keeping him entertained, clean, well-fed and clothed and making sure he knows he’s safe and loved at all times. From birth, my main goal was getting him to sleep through the night in his own bed. He always slept in his crib and by the third month, he slept through the night. Now he sleeps 12+ hours every night. (Go ahead, hate me. I don’t care).
I didn’t do some of the things other parents do or some of the things that were recommended to me. I’m no pushover and I’m probably more of a disciplinarian than Jay is, but the kid is going to be told “Yes” a lot more than he’s told “No” in his life. Probably. I believe in positive motivation in the form of encouraging dreams and supporting goals. So, this article by Amy Chua leaves me cold. Growing up, my best friend was Chinese and I know that some of what Ms. Chua says about “Chinese Mothers” is true, but I sincerely hope my friend didn’t have this kind of mother. One who would call her daughter “garbage” as a form of motivation. Seriously?
Among the things Ms. Chua’s daughters were not allowed to do were:
• attend a sleepover
• have a playdate
• be in a school play
• complain about not being in a school play
• watch TV or play computer games
• choose their own extracurricular activities
• get any grade less than an A
• not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym and drama
• play any instrument other than the piano or violin
• not play the piano or violin
Is that parenting-- or indentured slavery? (And I’m scratching my head over some of the arbitrary prohibitions. Why only the piano or the violin?)
Obviously, this kind of parenting “style” is extreme and most parents (especially us Western parents) aren’t going to sign up for Chua parenting classes. But I’m guessing a lot of Western parents will read her book Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother that was released yesterday, in hopes of gleaning some tips on motivating their “lazy, cowardly, self-indulgent and pathetic” children. (She seriously called her daughter those names.)
You know what? You can beat a dog every day and he will learn to obey your rules-- but you’d better not turn your back on that dog. And you can emotionally abuse (and yes, I consider this kind of “parenting” to be emotional abuse) a child and break her will, but there will be consequences. Those consequences may come in the form of some dramatic rebellion at 18 or 21 that involves violence, alcohol, drugs, promiscuity or simply doing every single thing that was forbidden throughout childhood. Or the consequences might be in raising a child who goes on to emotionally abuse her own children in the same way. Only time will tell.
I don’t think you have to break a human being’s spirit in order to motivate her to be the best person she can be. And that’s what Ms. Chua is writing about-- not possessions, not slaves, not extensions of herself-- human beings. Human beings who will grow up and look back on their childhood with adult eyes and have their own opinions on how they were raised. I’ll stick with my laid back style of parenting and spend my money on a books that aren’t filled with advice on how to motivate my child through insults, threats and emotional abandonment. Maybe Ms. Chua’s daughters will write their own books one day, hmm?
We measure our lives in terms of hours and days and weeks and months and years. We are constantly looking ahead or thinking back, rarely grounded in the present moment. I’m as guilty as anyone, planning the future, reminiscing (or mourning) the past. I barely had time to breathe last January, much less contemplate resolutions for the new year, but I still took a shot at putting some goals in writing. I accomplished more than I thought I would of that list-- traveling a bit, signing new contracts with Cleis Press, celebrating our 20th anniversary with our annual day trip to Williamsburg (not quite a romantic getaway, but maybe we’ll squeeze something in this year).
I was contemplating resolutions for this year when I took a pregnancy test and found out… holy fertility… I’m pregnant. No, we weren’t “planning” it. We had been talking about it off and on for months, but had never really committed to it. (Rather, I hadn’t committed-- Jay has wanted another baby since I was pregnant with the last one!) On the other hand, we hadn’t given away any of the baby stuff either-- not even a onesie. I gave the too-small Bumbo seat (a wonderful thing for babies who can’t sit up yet) to friends months ago with the understanding that it’s only a loan. Clearly, despite my ambivalence about another baby, I wasn’t ready to close the door on the idea.
I started 2010 with a four week old baby and I ended 2010 four weeks pregnant. What a year! And now I’m faced with trying to put down some resolutions in writing, knowing that pregnancy and another baby are certain to throw a wrench in the works. I realize things may not go well because of my age and history of miscarriage, but I am trying to maintain a cautious level of optimism. I announced my pregnancy pretty much immediately for the simple fact that as soon as I order a decaf black and white mocha at Starbucks the baristas are going to know what’s up since they were along for the ride last year. It seemed silly for the Starbucks crew (most of whom I’ve friended on Facebook) to know I was pregnant while my closest friends did not.
So now what do I do? Do I write resolutions based on being pregnant and having a baby at the end of August or beginning of September? Do I forge ahead with resolutions that don’t factor pregnancy and a new baby into things? Do I skip the resolutions again this year and just shoot for some random goals?
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Babies. Pregnancy. Motherhood. Insanity. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
