Confessions of a Mildly Detached Mother

In hindsight, I'm ashamed that I spent so much time arming my child and myself against the party hostess's unfiltered judgements. Cloth diaper on baby bottom? Check. Bottle of breast milk (not formula), casually but clearly identified as such? Check. I'd already considered ways I could steer the conversation away from daycare and its inevitable role in our future. Let her tongue click later. I just had to get through this one party.

It was all going so well. She graciously offered to let the baby sleep in any one of their quieter rooms, if I felt comfortable leaving her alone. Certainly, I said. I wasn't one of those parents who had to hover over their kid non-stop. Not like my friend so-and-so with their toddler, I said.

The party hostess's face fell. Obviously, she had hovered over her kids when they were that age. In mocking my friend, I had mocked her, too. And then I just felt like an asshole.

Cursed judgment, it's so contagious. The party hostess tells other parents how they should raise their kids. And when she's not around, those other parents criticize her for homeschooling her brood. It never ends. In my ideal world, everyone stops giving a shit what anyone else thinks and everyone also keeps their mouths shut. But I don't see that happening, especially since I can't even live up to that standard.

Child rearing shouldn't be a competition, but that's how it feels at times. And I've gotta say, the attachment parents are usually the worst. I use "attachment" as a catch-all term for the generally liberal, usually middle class parents who are philosophically dedicated to at least some of the following - natural childbirth, breastfeeding, co-sleeping, organics (food, fabrics, etc.), cloth diapering, cooking their own baby food, delaying or refusing immunizations and never, EVER letting their kid "cry it out". Strict adherence to these methods requires sacrifices of time, money and sleep. And some among us seem to be keeping score. Since my days of working in nonprofits I've never met so many cutthroat martyrs. Who will give the most of themselves purely for the benefit of their child?

Answer - not me. Sure, I share many of the aforementioned values and lifestyle choices. But, my reasons for doing what I do are not always based on what's best for baby. In many ways, I am mildly detached from my child. This is how I keep myself sane. I'm proudly imperfect and in this series of blog posts, I’d like to tell you exactly how ~

Breastfeeding
For the first six months of my baby’s life, I fed her nothing but breast milk. I was able to do this because I am both lucky and privileged.

If:

• Nursing your baby does not cause significant physical pain
• You don't rely on a prescription drug to get through your day-to-day life
• You don’t have any serious issues with the mechanics (latch-on, milk supply, etc.)

then you are lucky like me.

If:

• You are able to stay at home with your baby for an extended period of time
• You work for people who are genuinely supportive of your nursing habit
• You own a breast pump

then you are privileged like me.

Breastfeeding is a fantastic experience and I’m truly thrilled if you or your partner are able to do it. But please acknowledge your luck and privilege. And if you must judge parents who feed their babies formula, please use your pre-mouth filter. It’s really none of your business.

So, yeah, I’m a World Health Organization superstar, and I continue to nurse my baby between solid food meals. Bully for me! Alas, I would probably not qualify as a La Leche League superstar, because I do not always feed my baby whenever she wants. If I know she's not needing food and I don’t feel like it, I may find another way to placate her.

And speaking of placating someone when they’re cranky - I broke out my breast pump for the first time back in December and have used it frequently since. Yet, I didn’t go back to work until last month. Why would I bother pumping if I’m gonna be around my baby anyway? So I can have a couple beers and not worry about it getting into her milk. Sometimes mommy needs her bottle, too. This is what I mean about being mildly detached. My life is mostly about her, but I get to enjoy these little patches of pure self interest. I’m able to keep my balance and I think we both fare better in the end.

Green Acres 2012

No time? Hire a vegetable grower

Here's my concept for a "Green Acres" redux - in this modern version of the classic 1965 sitcom, Oliver and Lisa are 30s-ish Brooklyn foodies. She's a native New Yorker and a restaurant critic. He hails from suburban Detroit and is an avid community gardener. Lisa is forever in love with her hometown, but Oliver has grown frustrated with the "rat race" and his lucrative but soul-crushing marketing career. At his insistence, the two relocate to a cheap expanse of prairie on Detroit's east side, where he realizes his urban farming dream. But, the farm livin' reality doesn't match up to Oliver's fancy. He must contend with crappy, unpredictable weather, a crumbling infrastructure (bringing back the telephone at the top of the pole), and constant miscommunication with his neighbors. Yet, while he struggles with his unexpected "fish out of water" status, a more worldly Lisa is better able to adapt to the environment and relate to other community members, including Sam Drucker (who owns the neighborhood corner store; he kindly agrees to sell Oliver's veggies, though no one seems interested in his $5/lb. heirloom tomatoes), Mr. Haney (another vendor at the neighborhood farmer's market; much to Oliver's chagrin, he's clearly dealing in shady, non-local goods, like grapefruit and foreign-made car parts), and the Ziffels (who speak to their pet goat*, Arnold, like he's people). The comic gold is in uptight Oliver's constant frustration with his unusual surroundings vs. Lisa's easy acceptance of their new lot, and the fact that neither of these two food-fetishizing farmers know how to cook their produce.

----

The inspiration for this concept came from a guy I don't actually know, a friend of a friend. My buddy told me how this dreamy suburban guy had started a farm in Detroit. Apparently, farmer dude found it necessary to brandish a rifle as a way of dealing with pesky neighborhood crackheads. My immediate, albeit silent reaction was, "Uh, weren't the crackheads there first?" Gentrification is a very complicated thing, and I should know because I'm on my fourth round of being a white beneficiary. I think that many gentrifiers view themselves firmly rooted in the moral high ground because they're "fixing things up". Combine this with foodie ideals and you find yourself in an ethical quagmire.

Speaking of which, the only way this remake could work is with a television writing dream team. In my fantasy, this would include David Simon, Louis C.K., and some really funny Detroiters, like the guys who write "The Ed and Moe Show". That combination of folks could handle the sociological realities with humor and some degree of accuracy. Because, let's be real, Oliver and Lisa would be white, and most of their neighbors would be African American. Without great writers, the show would either be stupid at best or racist at worst, and then my brainchild would end up on the pages of my current favorite website.



*I've heard of people keeping pigs in Detroit, but I've actually seen goats there.

Peevishness is My New Pet Peeve

I've developed a nasty pet peeve and it won't leave me alone. It's of the spoken variety, and it goes like this - 

(unbelievable or irksome revelation, followed by) "... really?... REALLY?!"

Alternatively, it may go like this -

"Seriously? No, really, SERIOUSLY?"

Do you remember when 97% of your acquaintances didn't utter one of these statements every day? I do. It was a glorious era when we could conceive that dumb and frustrating things happen all the time. Yes, that other driver did cut you off in traffic. Your boss did keep you late for no good reason. Your stupid cat indeed did pee outside of the litter box. It happened and it sucked and maybe you groused about it, but you never wondered, "Is this reality? Was my cat just joking?"

Until recently, I had no idea how this rampant bout of incredulity got its start. Then I learned that it emerged from that hotbed of catchphrases both irritating and irresistible - Saturday Night Live. Since I haven't watched a full SNL episode in nearly twenty years, I had no idea. Apparently, "Really!?! with Seth and Amy" was a Weekend Update feature during the Meyers/Poehler era starting in 2006. This social tic is six years old, yet never so inescapable as it is now. Check out this headline from the Guardian UK website, back in January.

 

All I can say to Ms. Harding or whoever wrote that headline is, you didn't know that guy is a complete piece of shit? He is. I'm not trying to downplay his awfulness. You should never cease to find him disgusting, and it's good that you're letting others know what a horrible person he is. But your disbelief is rather unbelievable in itself. In fact, it's kind of a drag.

Exasperation is a turn-off, people. It's a weak, whiny response to life's unpleasantness. And please don't mistake this as me saying, "just suck it up." Bitching is great and complainers are some of my favorite people. What bugs me about the "really/seriously" trend is that it posits suffering as something new, which leads me to my theory on why it's so popular.

I'm now aware of its SNL origins, but I hate to blame my pet peeve on Amy Poehler, whom I adore. Based on my undocumented, unscientific observations, I suppose that the "really/seriously" trend gained enormous popularity in the past four years. I think it's largely a response to the recession. For anyone who is deep in student loan debt with only a minimum wage job to show for their degree, or who lost their retirement fund and now looks forward to working until they die, or who lives in an apartment when they used to own a McMansion, or is an out-of-work professional competing with hundreds of applicants for a gig at Home Depot... well, I guess "Really?!" is an appropriate response.

My problem with this trend is that these expressions have spilled over into the way we handle everyday difficulties. Now we have a cliche. And as cliches go, it's a downer. The problem is that it's so insidious. Unlike "a couple of wild and crazy guys" or even "not!", it's so easy to insert "really/seriously" in any complain-y conversation. I catch myself almost doing it all the time. Fortunately(?),  I find it so grating that I'm usually able to avoid usage. I just step back and remind myself that annoying shit is commonplace and I don't need to sweat it. I can respond in so many other ways - criticize, mock, ignore. I try to save my exasperation for a special occasion, like this blog post.

I'm requesting that you do the same. It seems sometimes our world is defined by unfairness, maybe more so than ever. Or perhaps it's just that we Westerners are feeling it more than we used to. What can you do but make the best of whatever shitty hand life dealt you? Whether that means shrugging it off or starting a revolution, I wish you well*. Just keep this in mind, a poker face can go way further than - "Really? Seriously? My high card is a seven?!"

*unless you're Rick Santorum, or someone who would vote for him.

The Surprise Center of Everything I Miss

In just eight days, we'll pack two tons of baby gear and one baby girl into a rental car, drive ten hours north on I-75 and spend a week in our beloved, mitten-shaped homeland. During that time, we'll be lodged in exotic... stunning... Livonia, Michigan.

The first image on the City of Livonia's "Community Profile" page.

No kidding, I'm honestly geeked to be staying in this grid-shaped expanse of strip malls and post war subdivisions. Growing up in Dearborn, my primary association with Livonia was the old Ladbroke DRC where we'd go to watch horse races. That was the only reason I ever went there. But now I see it as a rather ideal locale, for several reasons:

Proximity to a slew of southeastern Michigan hotspots We've got must-see people and destinations in Ann Arbor, Ypsilanti, Canton, Dearborn, Dearborn Heights, Detroit and Huntington Woods, not to mention a pair of dentist appointments in Bingham Farms. That's three counties, y'all! Livonia may be the most central location, which never occurred to me until we booked our room. Apparently, it's also a haven for traveling businessmen, as our hotel's complimentary breakfast includes "traditional Japanese items" - ooh la la!

There's a Costco there You may be thinking, "Costco? Ha ha! Tara has officially turned into a boring mom." Fair enough. I just recently became a card-carrying member, but I feel as if Costco and me were always meant to be. What's not to love about prodigious free samples and cheap, organic, frozen burritos by the dozen? I can get Dubliner cheese for six bucks a pound! The little cafe in the front sells giant, hand-dipped ice cream bars for $1.50. It's like Ikea for people who enjoy food more than furniture (though they also have furniture, and clothing, and car tires). I hate shopping, but I love going to Costco. We'll have a kitchenette in our room so being this close to one is rather practical. After all, we can't live on traditional Japanese breakfast items alone.

There's a secret oasis of bucolic grandeur there Our friend J is a longtime Livonia resident. Hopefully, we'll get a chance to hang out with her and her faithful Labrador/Chow mix, who looks just like a little black bear when he stands on his hind legs. She introduced us to the lovely hiking trails at Rotary Park. Those woods are quite serene. Right about now it's probably strewn with wildflowers. It's a cool respite on a hot, sunny day and a natural shelter in light rain. Once, I saw someone on horseback there. If you enjoy nature walks and find yourself in the vicinity, I recommend checking out this place. I foresee at least a couple jaunts with our baby and our dog.


It's Metro Detroit, and that's good enough for me I know my audience, so I'm careful to include the word "metro". People from SE Michigan bristle when suburbanites say they're "from Detroit", because everyone is so aware of the difference between the mostly African-American city center and its much whiter suburbs. But consider this - while the city population has dipped below 800,000, the metro area is about 4.3 million. That's a significant number of people in a specific area that I think we may as well call Detroit. Whatevs. Chattanooga's metro population is 500,000 and it's the biggest city within a one hundred mile radius. I miss the advantages of living in a more densely populated region. More so, there are quintessential Metro Detroit things I crave. Like, for instance, choosing from dozens of possible routes between points A and B. "Should I take I-275 to I-94 or just head down Ford Road or Michigan Avenue?" - you don't get all those options when you're surrounded by mountains and ridges. I miss the long-established immigrant enclaves, and eating delicious Greek, Middle Eastern, Indian, Chinese and Mexican food. I can't even find good pizza around here. I miss AM 580, this funky Windsor oldies station that still plays pop tunes from the 1950s, as well as an inordinate number of Guess Who hits (to satisfy Canadian content minimums, no doubt). Now that I live far away, I realize that particular combination of things doesn't exist anywhere else. So it really doesn't matter where we hang in that vast cement grid where the mitten's thumb meets its palm. As long as we're with people we love and a short ride from a Coney Island, it's all home to me.

Baby Boot Camp

Cross training tool for new parents?

I haven't been working out as often as I think I should, but my reasons for feeling bad about that are suddenly very different. For most of the past six months, losing baby weight has been my primary objective. But that goal just isn't very motivating. Breastfeeding burns extra calories, so If I exercise only a couple times a week I still manage to lose weight. Aside from this strange new fleshy paunch*, I'm pretty happy with how I look. Plus, life with an infant gives me plenty of great excuses for blowing off the gym.

But in just the past week or so, I've found fresh inspiration for resuming my fitness regime. This increasingly mobile baby is kicking my ass! Bernadette hasn't figured out the arm part of crawling, but I predict that she'll be on the move within days. I am half proud, half terrified. Presently, she can scoot like a mofo, but that ain't the half of it. She rolls, lunges, flails, grabs and twists. It's all my fault. I wished for her to be athletic. I didn't consider how her ability and ambition would affect me. Preventing her from hurting herself has made me a contortionist. At least a couple times a day, I find myself standing up from a cross legged floor position as I hold a squirming baby who is clenching my hair with her tiny fists. I'm worn out! I've worked with two incredibly fit personal trainers, and neither of them were this hard on me.

As she gets bigger and stronger it's only going to get tougher. I need to lift weights, work my core and run several times a week so I don't hurt myself while taking care of her. I'm up for the challenge. Hell, I consider it physical therapy. It's the best remedy for utter physical depletion. I got a flavor of that feeling during my first trimester of pregnancy, but I wasn't working this hard. As I mentioned in a post from a year ago, I'm used to having a natural font of energy. Being zonked bums me out.

Having just turned 35 and considering the years ahead of me, I now regard energy as a precious resource. I'm investing most of it in this kid, but I'd like to have a bit left over at the end of the day for myself. So, it's time to front plank, shoulder press, and stationary bike my way to a greater sense of wellness. I gotta do my homework if I'm gonna survive baby boot camp.




*I've had a prominent paunch for years. The fleshiness is the strange new part of it.

On Tots and Time

Watching my five month old daughter resist a nap has given new meaning to the phrase "falling asleep". She really looks like she's falling. Her eyelids droop, her taut limbs slowly descend toward the mattress. And just when she's about to land in a pleasant slumber, she gasps, clenches every muscle and pulls herself back into determined, cranky consciousness.

I don't totally get why she fights it, but I remember hating naps when I was a kid. I can still see the wood grain patterns on the underside of the top bunk bed on a sunny afternoon in 1981. I was bored out of my mind. If I were TIRED, I'd be sleeping right now! As I laid in my prison cell, I imagined all the fun stuff my mom must have been doing at that moment.  I can't wait till I'm a grown up and no one can tell me what to do.  Years later, I would have a similar fantasy as I stared through the chain link fence that surrounded my elementary school playground. That guy mowing his lawn at the house across the street has no idea how good he has it. He is free.

I have to admit, being a grown up is better, though I now understand that adulthood comes with its own traps and tedium. I still hate naps and take far fewer than the number prescribed to new moms. I don't always sleep when the baby sleeps, because when else am I going to write? Will Bernadette envy my writing time when she's old enough to understand what I'm doing when I make her go to bed in the middle of the day?

So, I don't look at Bernadette or my young self and say, "You silly thing, someday you'll prize this activity you once hated!" That was never true for me. I guess the one thing I wish a child could understand and appreciate while they're still young is the preciousness of time. I was always wanting to speed things up. I can't wait for this nap time to be over. I can't wait until I'm old. It's only December 14th and I'm dying for it to be Christmas Day! As an adult, I love and savor the holiday season from Thanksgiving onward. But I'd gladly do without the gift exchange, and Christmas Day tends to be anticlimactic. As a child, the seemingly eternal build-up frustrated me. Now it moves so fast. I guess the days seem so much longer when you don't have that many behind you.

I'm turning 35 in a few weeks - not so very old, but not so very young, either. In a weird and unanticipated way, I feel lucky to have a baby at this pivotal moment. Raising an infant  warps time. The days stretch and fly like a fickle rubber band. It's exhausting and enlivening all at once. I'm often immersed in vivid nostalgia but also feel excited for the future. Somehow, I'm able to ponder all that while being present for this very needy person. It's hard work, but I'd rather be this busy than be obsessing over my age. I'd rather be mowing the lawn than staring through the chain link fence.

Silly Nicknames for a Serious Baby

Bern
Berna
Berna Loy
Bernie
Bernie Kopell
Bjernadette
Dernabette
Nerdabette
Squirmadette
Turnabette
Subalternadette
Bird-a-nest
Burpadette
Bruinadette
Brunettadette
Bear-nadette
Bear
Little Bear
Sweet Bear
Strong, Brave Bear
Abraham Leakin' (when her diaper leaks)
Grabigail Adams (when she grabs our faces, hair, etc.)
Sling Thing