Mothering
Fantasy: Although I know it will be difficult, I will maintain my composure at all times and will never yell at my children, an act that can damage their delicate psyches.
Reality: In addition to their ability to be incredibly cute and adorable, children have the capacity to make even the most patient person crazy at times when they do things like hide the car keys in the dishwasher or throw your watch down the toilet.
New fantasy: That the doors and windows will be closed and the neighbors away when I discover things my children have done, such as dumping a five-pound sack of flour on the floor and trying to clean it up by spraying it with Lysol. The result is that my kitchen floor looks like a relief map of the Rocky Mountains and smells like the bathroom at the bus station.
Food for the Family
Fantasy: I will have plenty of time to focus on the nutritional needs of my family and I will prepare complete, balanced meals every night the way my mother did.
Reality: There are days when finding the time to heat up a hot dog is a challenge.
New fantasy: That McDonald’s will add carrot sticks to Happy Meals so I can pretend that they are nutritionally balanced.
I believe in the power of fantasy. It allows me to face the future, knowing that in less than four years I will have a teenager in the house. But I’m not worried. I know my daughter will continue to be polite, maintain open communication with me and will never be embarrassed by anything I say or do. Yeah right!
Jan Butsch
United States of Motherhood
The luminous numbers clicked as the time moved from 1:59 A.M. to 2:00 A.M. I shifted the weight on my lap and moved my son from one breast to the other.
Michael quickly made it clear that he was no longer interested in nursing. I moved him to my shoulder and patted his warm little back, waiting for that satisfying burp that would signal his stomach’s acceptance of my late-night offering. Beneath me, I felt my legs growing numb and tingly. Even with a cushion, this wooden rocker was painful to sit in for long periods, night after night.
From the light of the streetlamp, I could see shadows in my son’s room. The quiet of the evening settled around us, but still Michael wouldn’t sleep. “Colic,” said the pediatrician. “We don’t know why it happens. He’ll grow out of it in about three months. We suspect their digestive systems start to mature by then. You’re home free the day he passes gas. Sorry.”
Sorry? Sorry? My patience and my body were worn thin. All the baby books had profiled an infant who would spend most of his early first year snoozing.
With my Southern Hemisphere sporting more stitches than a Quaker’s sampler and my hair coming out in chunks, I was a poster child for postpartum distress. My sanity began to unravel as I hallucinated that I was part of an ancient Mayan culture where babies were gourds. The next day, when I dragged myself, baby and car seat in tow, into the pediatrician’s office, I had been up forty-eight hours straight. Michael had slept a mere forty-five minutes during that two-day eternity. Thirty of those forty-five minutes had been on the car ride to the clinic. If I could only stay awake long enough, I might be able to drive to Alaska and back in three months.
The drugs to ease Michael’s system began, thank goodness, to take effect. His naps fell into a general pattern, though their duration was far shorter than the experts led me to believe. But nighttime was party time for Mr. Mike. I read books that extolled the virtues of letting him scream. I listened to tapes by experts telling me to walk away. I tried gizmos and gadgets that shook his bed and me like a blender on high speed. But I couldn’t walk away or relegate him to machinery. He was obviously in distress. The least I could do, I reasoned, was sit with him through the long and painful nights while he squirmed and struggled to fall asleep.
So we rocked. We rocked the circumference of the Earth. Then we rocked our way to the moon. Tonight we had been rocking toward Pluto. I brushed the velvety crown of his head. So dear, so soft, like chick down. I curled and uncurled his tiny fingers. I struggled with my anger. I sat there alone with him as my husband slept. Why wasn’t the baby sleeping? How long could I go without rest? A wave of shame broke over me. Wasn’t I blessed to have him? Wouldn’t a million women give anything to be holding a child? Then, as I glimpsed the moon moving behind a cloud, a thought came to me. A million women. A million mothers. A million babies.
Suddenly I realized that I was not alone. All over the globe, women were holding their babies. Some were lucky enough to sit in rockers. Some crouched on the ground. Some had a roof over their heads, as I did. Many more were exposed to the elements, shielding their babies from the rain, the snow, the sun.
We were all alike. We held our children and prayed. Some would not live to see their children grown. Some children would not live out the year. Some would die of hunger. Some from bullets or sickness.
But for a moment, under the same pale moon, we were all together. Rocking our babies and praying. Loving them and hoping.
From that night on, I viewed my time with Michael differently. The fatigue never left me. The seat never seemed any softer. But as I sat with him, I felt the company of a million women, a billion women—mothers, all, holding our babies in our arms.
Joanna Slan
Surviving the Early Years
of Momhood
As a woman you will never experience anything as wonderful as motherhood. There will be many hurdles along the way, such as colic, breast-feeding, eating solid food, temper tantrums and the first day of school. These are all challenging both for baby and mother. I will start with my least favorite.
The Colic Hour
Colic, as described by doctors, is a spasm of the intestines that causes pain. I can tell you from firsthand experience, colic is torture, for both the baby and mother. Colic most often presents itself at the same time each day. In my son’s case, it was at dinnertime. I spent many nights walking my son around the room while trying to snatch bites of my cold dinner. (Notice I said walking around the room.) I’m not sure why babies prefer walking, but they do. Their little brains seem to know as soon as you sit down. You can try to trick them by continuing the bouncing motion produced by walking, but it rarely works. It is as if the baby can sense it and says, “I told you to walk me around the room, and I meant it.” You will comply, and he knows it. At this point, you are beginning to be wrapped around your child’s little finger.
On Breast-Feeding
Breast-feeding is a joyous experience. In this case, reading helpful books is acceptable and recommended. What you want to steer clear of is advice-giving friends and family. They will bombard you with comments such as, “How do you know if he’s getting enough?” Or, “I think he is eating too much. He will get fat.” Or the famous, “Why don’t you try a pacifier instead?” Turn a deaf ear to these comments. You and your baby will know what to do. Submerge yourself in the feeling. Look into his eyes. Talk to him. Savor every minute. (The colic hour is quickly approaching.)
Milestones—To Read or Not to Read
Soon, your baby will encounter many milestones. During this period, reading can be good or bad. Avoid the articles that describe what your baby should be doing at a certain age. These are only good if he is really doing the activities they describe. If he is not, you will start saying, “My baby is not doing those things yet, maybe there is something wrong.” Ignore what the books are saying. You don’t need the concern.
Do They Really Need Solid Food?
When your baby starts eating you will need a large bib, lots of paper towels, and a floor mat for the overzealous eater. He will soon become bored with strained foods. It is time to introduce the chunky variety. Along with this comes the dreaded fear of choking. Try to avoid mashing your baby’s food. Your baby needs to learn how to chew. For my son’s first few feedings I’ll admit, I stood by ready to deliver the Heimlich maneuver at the first sign of trouble. Remember, babies have fantastic gag reflexes and use them proficiently to avoid this mishap. I discovered
this as I was pulling my son from his high chair, ready to deliver a firm back blow. In the time it had taken me to free him from his confines, he had dislodged the offender. So sit back and enjoy the show.
Baby’s First Words
If you find that your child’s first word is “NO” instead of “Mommy” or “Daddy,” do not be alarmed. Your child learns from imitating. As he begins to toddle, you will find yourself repeating the word “no” frequently. “No, don’t touch.” “No, it’s hot.” “No, it’s sharp.” You get the idea. To counteract this, repeat the words “I love you” to him often. I used the phrase, “Mommy loves you.” Consequently, my son’s first sentence was, “Mommy loves you.”
The Temper Tantrum
Temper tantrums are a test of wills! Read all you can on this subject from the experts. In my experience, ignoring the tantrum was the best solution. Now, that is not always easy when you are in a crowded grocery store. At all costs do not give in. Your child is very smart. He will quickly learn what decibel range of a red-faced scream it will take for Mom to give in. If ignored long enough, the child will discover tantrums do not get him what he wants. So, if tantrums happen to you, tune them out. This, too, shall pass.
The Independent Child
By age three and four, you will notice a welcome change. Your child can now express his likes and dislikes very well. You can reason with a child of this age and teach him acceptable behavior. However, if you see him struggling with a project, try to avoid doing it for him. He will usually snap, “I can do it myself.” As a mother, this will hurt your feelings. Try to remember this is a good thing. You will be grateful in the years to come when he becomes a self-sufficient youngster. At the same time he is testing his independence, he is also struggling with it. Hugging and cuddles are at an all-time high now. Eat it up! Savor every hug. There are few things more precious.
Kindergarten! Is It Really Necessary?
Hopefully, by age five you have weathered many storms and come out relatively unscathed. Starting kindergarten is more traumatic for the mother than it is for the child. I will admit I became slightly neurotic at this stage. (My family and friends would say very neurotic.) The thought of my son going off to school for the whole day made my blood run cold. How could I survive all day without him? Well, survive it I did, but not without a lot of tears. It is very important not to show your desire to throw yourself in front of the bus as it pulls away with your child inside. A more appropriate thing to do is to hop in the car and follow it! (Just to make sure he gets there all right.) Don’t tell your husband if you do, however. He is sure to think you have gone off the deep end. If you need to tell someone, tell your mom; she will understand.
This is as far as I can go with my story. The future remains a mystery to me. I look forward to each new challenge with anticipation. There is only one thing I am sure of—I will love my son through good times and bad, more than I have ever loved anyone.
Jacqueline D. Carrico
Who Are Harder to Raise . . .
Boys or Girls?
If you want to stir up a hornet’s nest, just ask mothers, “Who are harder to raise—boys or girls?”
The answer will depend on whether they’re raising boys or girls.
I’ve had both, so I’ll settle the argument once and for all. It’s girls.
With boys you always know where you stand. Right in the path of a hurricane. It’s all there. The fruit flies hovering over their waste can, the hamster trying to escape to cleaner air, the bedrooms decorated in Early Bus Station Restroom.
With girls, everything looks great on the surface. But beware of drawers that won’t open. They contain a three-month supply of dirty underwear, unwashed hose and rubber bands with blobs of hair in them.
You have to wonder about a girl’s bedroom when you go in to make her bed and her dolls have a look of fear and disbelief in their eyes.
A mother once wrote me to agree. She said that, “after giving birth to three boys, I finally got a girl on my fourth try. At first, she did all the sweet little things I longed to see. She played coy, put her hands to her face when she laughed and batted her eyes like Miss Congeniality. Then she turned fourteen months and she struck like a hurricane. When she discovered she could no longer sail down the banister and make my hair stand on end, she turned to streaking. I’d dress her ever so sweetly and go to the breakfast dishes. Before one glass was washed, she’d strip, unlock the door and start cruising the neighborhood. One day, the dry cleaner made a delivery and said, ‘my goodness, I hardly recognized Stacy with her clothes on.’
As she got older, she opened her brother’s head with a bottle opener for taking her dolls and called the school principal a ‘thug’ to his face.
I am pregnant again. I sleep with a football under my pillow each night.”
I knew of another mother, who said, “Boys are honest. Whenever you yell upstairs, ‘What’s all that thumping about?’ you get an up-front reply, ‘Joey threw the cat down the clothes chute. It was cool.’
When my daughter is upstairs playing with her dolls I yell, ‘What are you girls doing?’ She answers sweetly, ‘Nothing.’
I have to find out for myself that they’re making cookies out of my new bath powder and a $12.50 jar of moisturizer.
Her pediatrician advised me to ‘not notice’ when she insisted on wearing her favorite outfit for four months. How do you ignore a long dress with a ripped ruffle, holes in the elbow and a Burger King crown? How would you handle it if you were in a supermarket and the loudspeaker announced, ‘Attention Shoppers. We have a small child in produce wearing a long pink dress with a gauze apron, glittery shoes and a Burger King crown.’? Our third child was born recently. Another girl. I told the orderly to pass maternity and go straight to geriatrics. I rest my case. God knows it’s the only rest I’ve had in six years.”
Whether mothers want to believe it or not, they compete with their daughters. They recognize in them every feminine wile in the book because they’ve used it themselves. It worked on “Daddy” when you used it, and it’ll work again with your daughter. (“Daddy, you do believe that a tree can swerve right out in front of a car, don’t you?” )
Girls mature faster than boys, cost more to raise, and statistics show that the old saw about girls not knowing about money and figures is a myth. Girls start to outspend boys before puberty—and they manage to maintain this lead until death or an ugly credit manager, whichever comes first. Males are born with a closed fist. Girls are born with the left hand cramped in a position the size of an American Express card.
Whenever a girl sees a sign reading, “Sale, Going Out of Business, Liquidation,” saliva begins to form in her mouth, the palms of her hands perspire and the pituitary gland says, “Go, Mama.”
In the male, it is quite a different story. He has a gland that follows a muscle from the right arm down to the base of his billfold pocket. It’s called “cheap.”
Girls can slam a door louder, beg longer, turn tears on and off like a faucet and invented the term, “You don’t trust me.”
So much for “sugar and spice and everything nice” and “snips and snails and puppydog tails.”
Erma Bombeck
On Being the Mother of Twins
I had always wanted to be a mother. In my youthful days, I could imagine running through a field of daisies with my children. My long hair would fall in great swirls about my face, radiant with motherhood. My children would look up adoringly at me, and the sun would shine warmly on us.
But I found real motherhood not like that at all. One day I took my four children to a field, even though I didn’t have time to take the curlers out of my short stubborn hair.
One of the twins got stung by a bee and the other one picked poison ivy for me. The girls complained constantly about being thirsty. Just as the rain started, a man yelled, “Hey, get out of here. You’re trespassing.”
Why doesn’t someone tell you what motherhood is really like? Why don’t they tell you ab
out mountains of crumbs that stick to high chairs and sticky spilled milk and sky-high temperatures. Why doesn’t someone warn you about children who whine? Why don’t they tell you how to get gum out of rugs and what to do when an apple gets flushed down the toilet?
Actually, I managed quite well as a mother with my first little girl. Julie was never sick, and anything suited her. She had regular checkups, ate a balanced diet, wore matching outfits and a pert ribbon in her hair, and always smelled of baby powder. I read to her by the hour. She could quote “Annabel Lee” in kindergarten.
Two years later a second daughter, Jennifer, arrived. Jennifer was a happy, contented baby, like her sister. Two little girls and amother who had to hurry a bit but certainly believed that little girls were sugar and spice and everything nice.
But wouldn’t a little boy be fun, I thought, as I saw my husband looking at boy babies or going out to play football with a neighbor’s child. I wonder what little boys are like, I mused. So at the age of thirty-three, I was delighted to learn a baby was on the way. My husband and our girls were also thrilled.
I can still remember the kindly doctor looking at an x ray two months before my baby was due and holding up two fingers. I didn’t know what he meant.
“Twins, Mrs. West, you’re going to have twins!”
I expected girls again and had, back in my mind, the names Jessica and Johanna. But we quickly came up with the names Jonathan and Jeremy. I couldn’t believe I had twin sons—or four children!
The trips to the pediatrician’s office became so traumatic that I stopped going. There was always a little fellow who sat calmly by his mother’s side glancing up at her lovingly. His shirt was buttoned, his pants zipped, socks matched, and both his shoes remained on and tied. His mother sighed to me, “I don’t know what I’d do if I had two of little Albert.”