I suffer from an unfortunate social disease that prevents me from doing anything to make anyone else feel uncomfortable, despite how awkward I might feel. At a bar, on public transportation, in an alcohol fueled family discussion I make eye contact with the craziest one and then boom! I become the one to whom the crazy latch on and there I stand, stuck in a one sided conversation that involves the individual passionately telling me something outlandish while I smile and nod my head enthusiastically and hope that someone, anyone, will step in and save me. Hours later I attempt escape with a meek excuse about needing to use the restroom or find my husband or turn into a pumpkin and tiptoe away hoping not to upset anyone.
I do this when faced with the good intentions of an unsolicited advice giver as well. If I ever thought that I was the victim of drive by tips before, I had no idea how often I would be hit by the semi truck of parenting two cents until I had my little baby terrorist. There was the lady who pulled over on the side of the road while I was walking the dog and the baby in our neighborhood just to inform me that she really thought the baby could use a hat. There are the people that tell you Tylenol is terrible, sleeping with your baby is dangerous, sleeping with your baby builds confidence, teething tablets are questionable, teething tablets are life savers, pacifiers cause nipple confusion but if your baby is crying then a pacifier is a perfectly acceptable solution, and the list of conflicting information goes on and on. I try to act interested, nodding as though grateful for the slew of unwanted and frankly confusing words of wisdom that enter one ear and graciously exit the other.
But when one of my parental units call with opinions on how to raise the baby, I crawl back into my 13 year old self, fold my arms and stick out my tongue. Whatever, Dad, I'm not listening! Later I am going to call my best friend and talk about how I have the meanest parents in the world and you had better believe that my diary entry tonight is going to go a little something like this:
Dear Diary,
My dad is sooo mean! He doesn't understand anything. He thinks that just because he's older than me and has raised two babies he wrote the baby handbook. I am so not speaking to him for the rest of my life but I really hope he babysits next weekend so I can go out with my friends.
Oh and Jay said he thinks I'm cute! I love him soooo much. Hearts hearts doodle doodle.
Babbling Brooke
So there I was, 31 going on 13 as I listened to my dad's good intentioned but completely gratuitous counsel. As you all know by now, I am the mother of a baby terrorist. Currently, her terror tactic of choice is sleep deprivation. At 4 1/2 moths old, we still had her sleeping in a bassinet by our bed. Call me crazy, but I have a difficult time letting her cry it out when she wakes up five hundred thousand times a night. My dad was of the opinion that I was letting the baby terrorist win and to an extent, perhaps I was. But I am clearly still a rebellious teenager though my wrinkles call my bluff when my dad tells me what to do.
I made my usual arguments in between crying, stomping my feet and putting my fingers in my ears, yelling "I can't HEAR you!" at the top of my lungs. Why let her cry it out when I am going to be awake either way? I can either wake up and help put her back to sleep or I can listen to her cry while laying in bed wide awake and feeling like a total failure. I'm tired and cranky either way, but the latter method also leaves me feeling like a complete jerk. Why fight with the baby? Why walk down the hall to her bedroom when I can just roll over and get her out of her bassinet?
My dad, as he has done since the beginning of my smart ass teenage years, listened to me rant and then boom! hit me with his best shot.
"Sweetheart," he began. God, I hate that. He always starts out nicely before he knocks me down from my high horse. "Maybe it's time you start learning to be a parent."
Oh snap! No he didn't!
As I furiously stewed for the next few hours, I began thinking about the parenting advice we receive from our own parents. It seems as though now that they have raised us into adult hood and we seem to be doing okay, their memories of child rearing is vastly different from what actually happened. They become the baby whisperers, the masters of sleep training, hearts hardened against the agonizing sound of baby cries. They forget about the daily decisions you struggle to make, hoping each time that your choices are the right ones for your child. As I revert back into the role of a petulant teenager rebuking any suggestions my parents make, and as I face new challenges the baby terrorist throws in my direction, I realize that maybe we all slowly forget the tests that seemed insurmountable at the time but now are just a distant memory.
Of course I'm totally going to take his advice. And if it works, I'm totally not going to tell him. But when I look at my baby, asleep in her crib, I know that one day she will be 31 going on 13 and I don't want to know what she told her diary about me.
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