I got to thinking of guilt some time ago as I was I guiltily ignoring the toddler and surfing the internet when I came across Margaret Wente’s recent column, Motherhood: The New Oppression. According to Margie, “if we want to raise the birth rate, perhaps we need to lower the bar”. (She says lots of other smart things too, but I’ll focus on that quote for the sake of simplicity and the way it lends itself so neatly to my discussion here.)

Now, I’ve written before in defense of overparenting, which frankly, has gotten a bit of a bad rap. If abstaining from tequila when I’m pregnant, discouraging knife play, and thinking piano lessons are a nice idea make me a helicopter parent, well ex-cuuuuuuuze me. I don’t think that we should romanticize the days of  children babysitting themselves at seven years of age and seat-belt optional road trips. But we’ve taken it further than just embracing butting out and time-outs. We’ve set the standard of motherhood so high that reaching its summit has become virtually impossible. One of the greatest downsides of our generation’s “enlightened” parenting is that knowing too much simply means that we can’t do everything that we know we’re supposed to do.

Enter the guilt.

I really don’t think that my mother endured the kind of mommy guilt to which I am subjected. Sure, it’s partly a personality thing, but it’s also a generational thing. She didn’t feel guilty about buying plastic sippy cups or kiboshing breastfeeding as soon as we cut our first teeth primarily because she wasn’t inundated with information compelling her not to.

I, on the other hand, will buy the plastic sippy cups (we’re on a budget and they’re a fraction of the cost of the stainless steel ones) but I am left to suffer the images of my son sprouting man boobs or cancerous growths. It’s unfair really. She never had to worry about my brothers’ man boobs.

But getting back to guilt. It sucks. And sometimes I feel like it runs my life. Thus far this week, here are a few samples of what’s induced it:

1. The occasional realization that I never do crafts with my child. Everyone else seems to do crafts. I just see glitter and glue and paint-crusted hair and think oh f-ck it. Then I feel guilty. But I still don’t do crafts.
2. The incredibly effective babysitting ability of Elmo. Cringe levels of guilt!
3. Callum went down for a nap with a bottle in his mouth. I sneak in every couple of minutes and try to extract it but then he wakes up and the nap is kaput. Also both my mother and mother-in-law worked in the dental field. On top of feeling guilty I might be in big trouble.
4. Ordering takeout on multiple occasions this week when I am a perfectly adept cook and we are trying to save money. Why takeout this week, you ask? Because I have been spending nap time watching Lost online (bonus guilt!). I am halfway through season six, okay? No more pad thai and fish and chips once I’m done! For real!
5. I have not updated this blog in weeks/I am updating this blog instead of spending time with my family or doing more sophisticated things.

You see the lose-lose situation this guilt thing causes?

p.s.

When I started writing this post I was in Victoria, but as I edit I’m back in Nova Scotia for a visit, and my dear child is being adored by his extended family while I enjoy my butter with a side of vegetables and my mother keeps a steady supply of Swedish crime novels at my disposal.

See? She is the best mom ever. And she never did crafts. And I bet that if she had the internet in 1979, she totally would have surfed it too.

Thank you vacation for making me feel decidedly less guilty.

We were at the bank, doing bank-ish, grown-uppy things, when the clerk benignly suggested that we update my personal information.

“Still living on Moss?”

“Yup.”

tap tap tap goes the keyboard

“And has the phone number changed?”

“Nope.”

tap tap tap

“Hmm…are you still an employee of West Vancouver School District #45?” (We live in Victoria now.)

Pause. “Well, I’m on leave.”

“Oh, I see. Are you planning on returning to work for that district?”

Enter blubbery explanations. “Well, not exactly. Not that board. But another one, soon! See, we moved, and I haven’t found work here, and you know, childcare…”

“Mmmmhmm. So you’re unemployed?” finger poised to tap

“Not exactly…I’m just home with my son until…”

“So you’re a homemaker?” finger poised to tap

I froze. There were my choices. Unemployed, or homemaker.

“Yes, I’m a homemaker,” I squeaked in a small voice.

“Okay,” she smiled.

tap tap tap

And there it was. Officially into the official computer at the official bank. I. Am. A HOMEMAKERRRRR!

See, I had always assumed that I would return to work after I had a baby. Yes, there were practical reasons to do so, but also, I loved my job, and spent many years trying to get there, and had no plans to cast it all aside in favour of ticking the Homemaker box. Heaven forbid. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.

Nonetheless, as my belly swelled and the due date crept closer, my excitement grew, not just for our family’s imminent addition, but also because I was going to have a year “off”! (The quotation marks will soon reveal their significance.)

Skip to two months ahead, and see me weeping as John leaves for work. “But I want to go to work!” I wail as he reluctantly backs out the door. Perhaps I holler “LUCKY!” or “NOT FAIR!” down the street as he walks away.

It turns out that my job, well, that was something I was fairly competent at. Caring for my furious non-sleeping infant and managing a little light cleaning? Not so much.

My irrational brain began seeing a return to my job as the answer to my problems. Then I would have my confidence back! I would have balance! I revealed this to several other new mother friends, who considered what I was saying with a combination of shock and bewilderment, cradling or nursing their angelic babies as I panted from the exertion of my requisite keep-Callum-from-howling bounce. “You want to go back to work?” they said, looking at me as if I had just farted and invited them to smell it.

Of course, things got easier. Callum’s rage at the world in general was slowly subsiding, I had upgraded myself from “totally sucking at this” to only “sort of sucking at this”, and the idea of going back to work no longer seemed like the greatest thing ever.

Then, just as my leave ended, we moved. Across the country. Away from job opportunities (for me) and our entire support system. And the idea of me getting back to work had to take the back burner, regardless of what I wanted.

And then (in the spirit of keeping this story somewhat chronological) there was the bank incident.

I was a bit rattled for a few days afterwards, and my husband’s shouts of “Honey! I’m hooo-ooome!”  and “Get this kid away from me! I’ve had a brutal day at at the office. Now where’s my newspaper, woman?” didn’t help. (That’s what I get for marrying Mr. Hardy Har Har.)

But then, I let it go. I stopped offering explanations about my current professional standing (nobody cares anyway). I stopped stressing about abandoning the feminist cause.* I stopped worrying that by the time I returned to the workforce, I would be rusty and irrelevant. I started being grateful: grateful to stay in our PJs until 9 a.m. if that’s what we feel like doing, grateful to spend over an hour throwing rocks into the ocean on a beautiful day, simply because it’s fun, grateful that I’ve been (privately) upgraded (by me) from “sort of sucking at this” to “doing her best”, grateful to be making muffins from scratch, and above all, grateful to be my awesome kid’s full-time caregiver.

Even if we are broke-ass. And the bank has my official profession listed as “homemaker”.

Totally worth it.

Gotta go. John is hollering for his newspaper again. Duty calls.

* To cite Gloria Steinem, who helps to shush that misconception: The goal of feminism is to honor and value all productive human work and open it up to everyone — including work that has been devalued because women, the de-valued half of the species, do it. To say that homemakers “don’t work” is a form of semantic slavery. Actually, homemakers work longer hours, for less pay, under worse conditions (more violence, depression, drug and alcohol addiction etc.) — and less security … So we can help a lot if 1) we never say “I don’t work,” but rather “I work at home;” 2) never put “just” in front of homemaker; 3) expect and require men to be homemakers and nurturers, too, whether that means husbands who cook, or sons who do their own laundry, or single moms who find male baby sitters and “mannies” so their kids grow up knowing that males can be as loving and nurturing as females — just as women can be as accomplished outside the home as men.

You spend months (maybe years!) poring over bridal magazines and books, watching repeat episodes of The Wedding Story. You try on 75 different gowns, accompanied by all 12 of your bridesmaids for yaying and naying purposes. You order a custom headpiece from Paris. You consult with florists, musicians, stylists, chefs, and the graphic artist who is custom designing your sapphire-gilded invites. And you cash in a RRSP or two because hey! It’s the most important day of your life, right?

The day of your wedding dawns with thunder and lightning. So much for that beach photo shoot with the $1500/hour photographer! Your headpiece doesn’t arrive in time. The officiant is two hours late. All four members of your string quarter are suffering a nasty stomach bug, and have been replaced with a deejay who has a penchant for “Cotton-Eye Joe” and “Who Let The Dogs Out?”. The bachelor party got out of hand, and your groom is still green and swaying 48 hours later. And is that dog poop on the end of your train?

No, this did not happen to me, but it does serve as an effective metaphor for my entire birth experience.

Let me back up a bit.

When I was pregnant, I planned a natural childbirth.

I had my reasons. They’re pretty good reasons, I think. (Note that use of the past tense does not necessarily indicate that these beliefs have since been rescinded.) Among them:

1. I wanted to avoid the snowball effect (epidurals increase the c-section rate by 2-3 times).
2. I wanted to be in control when the time came to push. I didn’t want to be so numb that they’d have to go in with forceps. Yowzah.
3. I secretly wanted to brag about my natural labour. Yeah, I admit it.
4. I didn’t want the let the Big Bad Medical Establishment tell me I couldn’t do something that women have been doing for thousands of years without a whole lot of drugs and surgical masks and scary-looking tools. I believed that labour pain was just my body doing what it needed to do in order for my baby to arrive safely, and not something that just needed to be eliminated so that I could read my New Yorker magazine until someone came back in and informed me that I was 10 centimeters dilated and WHERE ARE THE FORCEPS?
5. I was doing it for my grandmothers, who were pinned down like insects to a specimen board, shaved, given enemas, and had their babies plucked from their wombs while they lay gassed. The 1950s were not exactly obstetrics’ finest hour.

I read every Mama Goddess/Birth Warrior/Lamaze book ever printed. I took prenatal classes with a doula. I was committed. I was ready to Trust My Body. When the time came to push, I was going to spread my legs and doves were going to fly out of my goddamn vagina. It was going to be beautiful.

So I arrived at the maternity ward after almost 42 mighty long weeks of pregnancy, with my Neko Case CD, Chinese stress balls, and inner strength. For a while, it was beautiful. I breathed. I rocked on the stability ball. I visualized. I spent hours in the tub. After 16 long hours, my doctor checked me. Five centimeters. A little disappointing, but fine. I would persevere. Another eight hours of rollicking contractions passed and I was feeling decidedly less goddess-like. At the 24-hour mark, they checked me again. Surely it was almost time. But alas, I was still five centimeters dilated. I started bawling and begging for an epidural.

And that, my friends, was my first real parenting learning moment. I learned that this whole thing was not going to go like I planned.

I won’t get into the nitty gritty of the rest of my birth experience, but I will tell you that after 30 hours of labour, Callum was born by c-section. I never passed the 5-cm mark, he was 9 1/2 pounds, and I was informally diagnosed with cephalopelvic disproportion, which loosely translates to FAT CHANCE THAT HEAD WILL EVER FIT. And over the next few days, as we struggled with nursing, sleeping (or lack thereof), and healing, I waited for the mourning to settle in. The doula had warned me about the mourning I would feel if my birth experience did not go as planned. I might also suffer feelings of regret and inadequacy, I’d been told.

I have to admit, I felt none of it.

As I looked at my precious (albeit seriously cone-headed) child, startled by the love I felt for him, I was so grateful he was healthy that God help me, I couldn’t have cared less if I’d coughed him out.

And I started to feel a bit grumpy about the Warrior Goddess semantics around natural childbirth. I was a  warrior, dammit, Demerol, epidural, and major abdominal surgery aside. My husband, who I had never seen so petrified in all the years I’ve known him, is a warrior. My dear friend, whose baby was born two months ago weighing less than a pound and who is still residing in the NICU, is a warrior. My former classmate, who is adopting two siblings from Rwanda this summer, is a warrior. Even The Big Bad Medical Establishment, who was amazing and nurturing and supportive, is chock-a-block full of warriors.

Suffice to say, my birth experience was not was I expected. But the biggest surprise was the discovery that childbirth was not the defining moment of parenthood I thought it would be. Yeah, it was a big deal, but I’ve had plenty of powerful moments since.  Like the time I plucked a nipple shield from a pot of boiling water as it was being sterilized, because my baby was hungry at that moment, and not realizing my fingers were burned until he latched on and my milk let down. And then there’s the moment I looked at him and thought: if anyone ever hurts you, I am fully capable of murdering them. These kinds of moments abound, and continue happening daily.

So next time, I will try to get though it naturally, sure. But I wouldn’t rule out finding me in the maternity ward with a spinal tap reading my New Yorker, either.

In the long run, that’s not what matters anyway. And regardless of what happens, I’m a freakin’ warrior.

For starters, my child has been uncharacteristically easy lately. He seems to have developed a penchant for naps that exceed 45 minutes in length, hasn’t bitten anyone in months, and his tantrums have mellowed into something that would best be described as “episodes”. I’m low on material.

Furthermore, I’ve been doing some writing for a parenting website/information database that a friend is developing (as soon as it’s up and running, consider yourselves linked) that’s requiring me to do all kinds of geeky research that I love. The problem with research, of course, is the internet, and the seemingly endless reserves of tangents it provides. What can I say. I’m easily distracted.

On top of all that John is away and will be for the next two weeks, leaving me in full single-parent mode (a post on the medals that those people deserve coming soon) and without much time for writing.

But tonight, inspiration struck.

I had just taken Callum out of the tub and was letting him do some air drying while I prepared his bottle. The child had been bare-assed for a total of 17 seconds when I realized that he had defecated on the carpet. And it was messy. And he had stepped in it. And he was running around like a drunken Ewok throughout the house.

I had to wrangle him back into the bathroom for another scrub down, all the while trying desperately to avoid the remarkably strong leg kicks that were directing the smushed turds all over me.

Once I completed that delightful task, I realized that I too had stepped in the poop (I was wearing socks so it took me a while to notice) and had thus contributed to what was now escalating into a full fledge sh-t storm.

The house we rent, you see, was last decorated in the mid-80s, when carpet was still de rigueur. We have carpet everywhere except the kitchen and bathroom, and there was even carpet in there (nasty) until we moved in. So there were little (and big, thanks to my contribution) footprints of sh-t everywhere. I had a major job on my hands, and once I finished it, I had very little left to put into a witty blog post. But I do have some helpful household tips about de-pooping your rug. And that’s why you visit this blog, right? For helpful tips!

Here you go:

1. Hope it’s a relatively solid movement and scoop it up with a plastic bag. Flush.
2. Wash area with warm soapy rag. Make sure that the rag is one that you won’t mind not seeing ever again.
3. Sprinkle with baking soda, let sit, and scrub gently again.
4. Apply whatever you have in your cupboard with skulls, crossbones, and corroded hands on the label. Scrub again.
5. Fantasize about hardwood floors, and seriously consider wall-to-wall linoleum and a hose attachment on every faucet as a future decorating option.

It started getting drilled into me when I was teaching elementary school a few years back. As a staff, we rewrote the school rules, framing them in a positive way, much to the delight of the new-agey administration and to the disgust of the old-school staff. “No running in the hallways” became “Please walk in the hallways” and “No fighting” became “Be kind”. The idea is that kids become deaf to no-speak. It makes them feel nagged, and then they shut down. Kind of like Ginger.

Maybe I was wrong to say that dog ownership doesn’t prepare you for parenthood. But I’m off on a tangent again.

Here’s my feeble philosophy: generally, I try to reserve NO for the following three situations: aggression, dangerous behavior, and throwing food. I can’t handle the food throwing. That is my personal boundary. And you know, when I do holler NO running into traffic! Callum generally stops and takes stock (see? success!)…and then runs into traffic five seconds later (never mind).

Is the “Say No to No” campaign a classic example of failed modern parenting?

Consider the following pleas which have left my lips (and the lips of many, many other Parents Who Are Doing Their Best) with the most sugar-sweet of panicked tones:

1. The neighbor’s Mercedes is for looking, not for touching!
2. We use our hands and feet in gentle ways!
3. Rocks are for the ground, not for our mouth!
4. Please-give-Mommy-the-sharp-object-THANK-YOU!
5. When we eat, we try to keep our food on the spoon!

I hear myself, and practically cringe with embarrassment. I can hear the old ladies whispering behind my back as we pass. “That child has his (or her, since everyone seems to think Callum is a girl thanks to my continued haircut strike) mother wrapped around his (her) chubby little finger!”

So the question is, are we raising a generation of brats? An entire group of children with no boundaries who are unable to accept situations that doesn’t go their way, who are disrespectful to authority and who are unwilling to follow society’s basic rules and regulations?

For this one, I will cash in one of my specially reserved NOs. And why, you ask?

Because I said so.

“Gin and tonic for dinner?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said, slurping. “A Coke. Because I’m a grownup now, so I can.” Pause. “But maybe I should make a salad or something, too.”

That conversation got me thinking. What are all those things about childhood that we so-called-adults just forget? When I was a kid, adults were from another planet. Not only would they choose vegetables over Coke for dinner, despite possessing the power to do otherwise, but they would do such unfathomable things as go to the beach and not swim, or dismiss the idea of living in Disney World as “impractical”.

What would the kid me have wanted the mom me to remember about her planet?

1. Sometimes, I really, really don’t want to eat something. Mom, I love you, and you are an awesome cook, but…circa 1983 there were a couple of attempts at a new exotic culinary trend called “Stir Frying” that ended badly. They involved shoe leather cuts of beef, a sad green pepper and Ben’s minute rice. I was never a picky eater but I remember pleading “Mom! I can’t do it!” I received little sympathy for my unwillingness to sample the latest ethnic cuisine, so I was left to chew, and chew, and chew, disgusted beyond belief, unable to break down the shoe leather beef with my six-year-molars. At that point I announced that I was going to vomit. Which I did. On the table. To my mom’s credit, she did not make Shoe Leather “Stir Fry” again. My point is that A) when a kid weeps that they can’t do it, they really and truly can’t and B) Peanut Butter on Toast > Puked Up “Nutritious” Dinner, any day. The End.
2. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve already watched that movie. I want to watch it again. And again. As an adult, it’s hard to fathom watching a movie, even one you truly love, more than twice. Three times tops (if the movie features Colin Firth or Gael Garcia Bernal) and holiday movies are exempt. But I digress. There are movies from my childhood that I have watched so many times I can still repeat entire passages verbatim. “You have 13 hours in which to solve the labyrinth before your baby brother becomes one of us…forever…” and “ONE POINT TWENTY-ONE GIGAWATTS!” jump to mind. Plus, watching a movie in the basement with a bunch of friends is just one of the most awesome things ever. So yeah, watching a movie you’ve seen seventy-five times already is perfectly acceptable kid behavior, and not a sign of any sort of compulsive disorder or agoraphobia. It’s just another opportunity to relish your favourite scenes, hang out with your buddies, obsess over your movie star crush, find some new previously unseen detail, or finalize your adapted script for “Pretty in Pink on Broadway”. That’s just what a kid wants to do, sometimes. And that’s okay.
3. Waterslides are, like, the best thing ever. What’s better than a waterslide? Some of my best childhood memories involve shivering in line at Magic Mountain and the wedgies that ensued. The adult in me sees a water park and thinks seventeen dollars a kid to splash around in ten billion gallons of chlorinated pee? But you know, when I am on my deathbed, I will NOT say, “Well, I’m sure glad I saved that money and prevented a pesky case of of athlete’s foot!” I will say “Let’s go, people..for ONE LAST WATERSLIDE!” So next time we’re on a road trip, and we’re on hour seven of “making good time”, and it’s 35 degrees Celsius out and everyone is cranky and we drive by one of those totally dicey side-of-the-road-in-the-middle-of-nowhere waterparks and Callum says “PLEEEEEEEEEEASE can we?”…I just might say yes.
4. Lame praise is no praise at all. Remember showing someone a picture you drew? And you were all I was so INNOVATIVE to combine crayon with Magic Markers! or how awesome is that Ninja Turtle driving the fire truck? and the person you show your masterpiece to says Hmmmmm Very Nice. Was that not infuriating? Kid me to grownup me: look at the damn picture. For real.
5. My parents are embarrassing beyond belief but I still love them (secretly). I have a friend whose father would threaten to come to the neighborhood teenage hangout and play his accordion if she was past her curfew. To my knowledge, she always came home on time. Because when you are 14, nothing is more embarrassing than your parents. You don’t want to be seen with them. You don’t want to be associated with them. In fact, it would be preferable if everyone just assumed you were raised by wild jackals, and didn’t have parents at all. And you certainly didn’t want them showing up at the skateboarding ramps (God forbid) playing the blasted accordion.  Maybe the mom me will have trouble not taking this personally. I just need to remind myself that no matter how much the mere fact of my existence induces heaving sighs, eye rolls, and slammed doors…I am still needed. And loved. I just might need to give it a couple of years.

What would the kid you want the grownup you to remember?

Here’s to hoping that these little tidbits bring you as much reassurance as they bring me.

1. Separation anxiety. Sometimes it feels a bit exasperating when you can’t even walk over to the trash can on the other side of the park without your child dissolving into hysterics. No, your child is not clingy and maladapted. It’s just that she has evolved to understand that screaming bloody murder will keep her from being left behind to get picked off by a sabre-tooth tiger. Or she knows that you’ll cave and give her what she want (my Dora doll! your boob in my mouth!) lest the screaming continue and cause us ALL to get picked off by sabre-tooth tigers.
2. Picky eating. Look, if a three-year-old is abandoned in the woods and left to forage, THEY don’t know what’s poisonous! So it’s best to avoid most things (i.e. everything green and therefore potentially dangerous) and eat what you KNOW is safe (i.e. Cheerios, mandarin oranges by the crate).
3. Aggression has long been the animal kingdom’s way of securing resources and territory. So it actually makes perfect sense that your (ahem, my) toddler, who has yet to learn the great art of self-regulation, behaves like Attila the Hun when other children have the nerve–the NERVE!–to come within a 15-food-radius of his toy digger.
4. Dr. Jekyll for everyone else, Mr. Hyde for you. Ever wonder why your child throws a screaming fit the second you arrive to pick her up at day care, only to be told that “she was PERFECT all day!” Kind of makes you feel like a loser, doesn’t it? Well, you’re no loser. See, your kid knows that no matter what she does, you will love her unconditionally, and that’s why once you show up, she feels free to, um, let loose a little bit. She understands perfectly well that even if she turfs your iphone in the toilet (again) you won’t reject her. But Miss Debbie the babysitter? Little Annabelle knows that she’s only as good as her last deed, and could very well be a phone call away from the Great Daycare Dismissal. So she’d best behave. After all, Miss Debbie has that kick-ass Barbie mansion, and Goldfish crackers at snacktime. Annabelle doesn’t want to mess with a good thing. It’s only natural that evolution favour children who are wise enough to make that distinction.
5. Annoying copycat behavior. So, one of your child’s first words is “f–k”? Well, he’s just showing you that he understands the importance of sharing culture. After all, he wants to fit in, not be rejected by the tribe! You’re lucky to have offspring that grasps this important concept!

So if your child displays these tendencies, congratulations. Your child is demonstrating all the characteristics that are favoured by natural selection! So next time you look wistfully at all the other well-behaved children, who don’t seem to be displaying separation anxiety or Jekyll and Hyde tendencies or truly shocking potty mouths, just smile to yourself and repeat after me:

“Darwin.”

Feels good, doesn’t it?

Nonetheless, I’m coming to terms with this aspect of my being. I can finally admit, now that my child is a fully certified toddler, that I am not really a baby person.

It would appear as if we’re officially out of the Baby Woods around here. Last weekend, we had one of those amazing days. We went for a hike outside the city. Callum managed most of it by himself, lifting his little bow legs over roots and stopping every few metres to smell the flowers. Literally. When we got home, we ate the baked beans I’d put in slow cooker that morning, Callum greedily spooning up more than his share, with nary a need for me to puree a thing. He splashed in the tub for half an hour after supper, playing intensely with his toy boats. When it was time for bed, we gave him a bottle, put him in his crib, bade him goodnight, and closed the door. He cooed for another twenty minutes or so before drifting off to sleep. There was enough evening left for John and I to watch a movie we rented, and we actually got through the whole thing without falling asleep.

I know, don’t hate us because our life is so perfect!

“Can we just adopt a two-year-old next time?” John asked. “You know, skip all the other stuff?”

He remembers all that other stuff. Most of the time I forget it. I call it Mamanesia. Because if we remembered, we probably wouldn’t go through it more than once. (John’s elephant memory is one of the main reasons for Callum still being an only child, by the way.)

I had a long conversation with a good friend a few days ago, who was fresh home from the hospital with a new baby girl.

It helped to jog my memory.

“I’ve been creeping through people’s Facebook pictures,” she confessed. “just so I can see evidence of them functioning. I’m like, look! They left the house! They’re not wearing pajamas! They’re not crying!”

In many ways, those early baby days were a bit like high school. Do what you have to do to survive. Don’t look like you’re trying too hard. And feel sweet relief when it’s over.

Back in the Newborn Days when I admitted that I was finding it all a bit tough, some well-meaning people would say, “Oh, but you have to enjoy it while it lasts! This time is so precious! They’re so precious!” This just added to the guilt, and made me feel compelled to fake joy when some days, I was feeling none of it.

I agree that babies are pretty endearing, and smell awfully good, but I never cited “I love babies!” as one of my reasons to have one, and have rarely been found begging to hold someone’s newborn. Every time Callum mounted another obstacle of babyhood (holding his head up! sitting! feeding himself!) I would clap and cheer at his accomplishment, yes, but also (secretly) because each milestone signified another step away from babyhood.

I’m not saying that babies aren’t fun. Actually, I am. They’re not really fun. Yes, they are worth it, but I wouldn’t describe a six-week-old infant as a whole lot of fun. I’ve discussed this before, with reluctance. Because it’s generally an unpopular viewpoint. It was with great relief that I read this column by the fabulous Alice Bradley, who describes the process of watching her son grow as getting to know a cast of characters rather than just one person. Alice confesses that of all the characters she got to know, that infant character is the one she misses the least. Thanks, Alice. One more member for Team Non-Baby-Person.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I would like to explain this to my wonderful Facebook-creeping friend and all those other new parents sitting at home with the newest character in their lives, wondering WHAT HAVE WE DONE??!!:

1. They get cuter. I know, you’re saying BUT MY BABY IS CUTE NOW! He is. Sort of. To you. But I mean he starts getting cute to other people.
2. You know that kid who can’t hold up their head? Soon they’ll be able to crawl across the floor, go down the slide at the playground, and wrap their arms around your neck out of sheer love. And that little mouth that can barely manage latching on most days will soon be saying mama. It might even say “please” and “thank you for all you have done for me” too, but that’s not something I can guarantee.
3. If you’re breastfeeding, you won’t have to do it 20 times a day until you give it up. It gets way easier (read this post for details). Also, your cup size will stop increasing by 4 letters between Oprah and dinnertime.
4. You will reach the point where leaving the house is actually preferable to staying home (some days). You might even–gasp–be able to leave the house WITHOUT THE BABY. Stop telling me to shut up! It’s true!
5. I promise, you will sleep again.

And hey, of you are one of those lucky people sitting at home with your baby who never cries and who sleeps all the time and is perfect in every way*, it gets even better.

* I don’t expect there are very many of those people reading this blog, but I have to be inclusive just in case.

However, it would appear as if my little outdoorsman is no longer satisfied limiting himself to the aforementioned activities. As soon as we arrive, he starts running for the water. You know, the liquid version of the icebergs a bit further up the coast? Of course, battle ensues. No amount of demonstrating The Joy of Sandcastles and Isn’t Digging Fun? was successful in distracting Callum from his singleminded obsession with attempting a polar bear dip. I sensed a tantrum a-brewing, so I tried applying a new strategy I’ve recently developed, without the help of any child-rearing manuals. It’s called my FINE THEN strategy. It goes like this.

FINE THEN. You want to eat banana peels? See? I TOLD YOU.

It’s actually been working quite well.

So I figured I would just apply the same formula in this situation. I took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants and said FINE THEN. Freeze your toes off. See you on dry sand in 12 seconds.

My strategy backfired a bit when it turned out that Callum was having the time of his life, and he stayed in that water, up to mid-calf, for the next half hour. Fine then. Callum 1, Mom 0.

After a while, I stopped worrying about hypothermia and started having a good time watching him. He shrieked in ecstasy every time a new wave washed over his toes and giggled hysterically at his feet getting suctioned into the sand. I figured that when he was too cold, he’d let me know. After all, of those things at which Callum excels, keeping me abreast of his discomforts is up there.

However, I started to sense a sinister presence around me. A raised eyebrow here, an outright glare there…it occurred to me that (gasp!) my parenting was being judged! Suddenly I felt surrounded by a cacophonous chorus of hissed why doesn’t she put some CLOTHES on that child! and it’s three degrees, for heaven’s sake! and IS SHE CRAZY?*

I started feeling really self-conscious, and much to Callum’s disdain, I scooped up my little bundle of blue lips and numb toes and headed for the car.

Parenthood has rendered me more sensitive than I have ever been. Sensitive in a crying at soap commercials kind of way, yes, but also sensitive in a fear-of-being-judged way. Because for whatever reason, once you become a parent, watch out. EVERYBODY has an opinion.

Take the following seemingly lose-lose scenarios that leave you susceptible to said judging:

1. Breastfeeding (especially of toddlers, and in public) vs. bottle-feeding
2. Disciplining your child vs. not disciplining your child
3. Overdressing your child vs. underdressing your child
4. Letting your baby cry vs. refusing to let your baby cry
5. Feeding your kid junk food vs. banning your kid from eating junk food

And that’s just scratching the surface. Wait till your held responsible for your teenager’s behavior. Oy.

No matter which path you take, there is someone, somewhere (99.9% likely to be another parent) who is rolling their eyes or expressing horror at your parenting.

Kind of daunting, isn’t it? Especially for us sensitive souls.

It should be easy to brush off, but when it comes to raising children, let’s be honest: we all want approval. Everybody’s approval. Often times, we try to fend off judgement with premature explanations. I’ve heard (and said things similar to) “We only give her popsicles when she’s sick! And they’re SUGAR-FREE!” and “It’s pumped breastmilk, not formula!” and “We lost his mittens on the way home!”

Crazy, isn’t it?

Here’s the weird thing: I don’t really care about what’s in your kid’s bottle, even if they are a little young for gin, or what outerwear you were unsuccessful at wrangling them into this morning. I figure that you’ve got your reasons: after all, I’ve got mine. So why should I assume that you care what I’m doing?

So from here on in, I propose a pledge of non-judgment. When you fill out all that paperwork at the hospital, there should be one more page that says something along the lines of this:

LOOK, WE’RE ALL DOING OUR BEST HERE, SOOOOO…

I HEREBY PROMISE TO CUT OTHER PARENTS SOME SLACK.

SIGNED, ___your name here____.

Maybe if I knew we all agreed on that I’d feel a whole lot better some days. And wouldn’t you, too?

* Maybe this paragraph is exaggerated a wee titch for dramatic effect.

Callum decides he is hungry, goes over to his high chair, and signals starvation with a “YUMMMM!”

I start to prepare his snack/meal as quickly as I can, if I haven’t had the chance to do so already. Instantly he melts down, into full-throttle tantrum mode, until he takes the first bite of his food. Then he smiles and eats merrily.

When this whole routine started becoming the norm (it has been going on for over a year now: that’s 365+ days multiplied by five meals a day…no wonder I drink) I assumed that soon he would learn. Callum would learn that the food will come, and there is no forced hunger strike or famine in his imminent future. Once he figured this out, he would begin to entertain himself quietly and patiently for those agonizing 90 seconds between Establishing Hunger and Eating Food.

Maybe my kid is just a bit slow, but guess what? He has not learned. And further to that? I don’t think he will any time soon.

My friend was telling me about a recent interaction between her 2-year-old and her mother-in-law, who reprimanded her son for his messing eating. “Naughty!” she told him, and turning knowingly to my perturbed friend, said confidently, “He’ll learn.”

Sure he will. But not today. And probably not tomorrow either. So scolding a two-year-old for poor table manners is like punishing a first-grader who can’t nail long division.

I’m starting to think that there are a lot of things that kids don’t in fact learn from your loving guidance. Sure, it doesn’t hurt to encourage the kind of behavior you want to see, but the fact is that despite your efforts, whatever unpleasant phase they’re going through will eventually just end and everybody will move on. So until your little warrior is ready, why force the issue? It just means frustration for the advocate and opposition from the adversary.

I hate to advocate an “I give up” mantra, but consider the following:

1. Your Food Will Come Eventually. And May I Introduce You To Fork, Knife, and Spoon. We’ve covered that one.
2. When Mommy Goes, She Will Come Back. Honest. When I leave, I have to sneak out of the house, creeping backwards, and put my shoes and coat on outside. “Bye Bye!” uttered from my lips is akin to saying “Mommy is giving you up for adoption! To Kate Gosselin! And by the way, THE HOT WHEELS ARE COMING WITH ME!”
3. Biting is Socially Unacceptable. I’ve written before about my biting battles. My child was a biter. Yes, he has stopped. And no, it was nothing that I did. My theory is that once he had sampled every possible texture between his teeth, from fossilized dog turds to human flesh, he got bored with the whole thing.
4. Sleeping is a Wonderful Thing. Not all kids are sleep-trainable, no matter what they say. I’ve talked to lots of desperate parents whose kids didn’t go for it. Perhaps those who respond successfully are just ready (and exhausted).  I would write about this more but I am just too tired. Next.
5. It’s Okay If Other Children Touch Your Toys. We “host” play groups at the playground, and will continue to do so until this phase passes. We’ve tried baby steps (invite one child at a time, bring your toys to someone else’s house) but these attempts have only ended in hysterical fits (him) and the inevitable armpit sweat stains (me) that come from from managing any public tantrum.

Someday, Callum will look at me, dabble the corners of his mouth with a napkin, and say, “Hey Mom, you really need a night off. Why don’t you go see a movie? Don’t worry, I can put myself to bed tonight!”

Until then, I won’t be holding my breath.

Oh, can someone remind me that I wrote this when I wean? And potty train? Seriously.