Mothering as Middle School

Becoming a mother is a lot like entering middle school.  Everyone desperately wants to be unique--in as normal and acceptable a way as possible.  Most people you know who are eager to give you mothering advice seem either unbearably old or just barely surviving whatever developmental hell their own children are experiencing.  If you are lucky, you will encounter a big sister or two who will not sugarcoat the experience, but will show true joy in the presence of her children. 

Mostly, though, you, like your teenage self, will feel like nobody understands you.  Even, and perhaps especially, when surrounded by the mothers of other babies, you will look around and think that all of these women have it so much more together than you. They pack organic snack food in reusable containers, and tote special zippered bags for their dirty diapers.  They pack these diapers in elegant handbags designed for weekend jaunts to the Hamptons.  They are the cool girls. You will feel slightly superior to the mom who always shows up late, with spit-up stains on her clothes, carrying extra diapers in a grocery bag. 

You will wonder, every hour of the first 365 days of your child’s life, whether what you are doing is normal. Someone will have written a book, or six, about every decision you question.  The books will not agree.  You will read them all, and still question all your decisions.  Your pediatrician will become the designated arbiter of normalcy when it comes to your choices as a parent, followed closely by your mother.  After the first 365 days, your question will shift.  You will find yourself wondering more and more whether your child--your precious, perfect child--is normal.

You will read dozens of books about child development, temperament, discipline, and a slate of child-rearing practices designed to turn out the child of your dreams.  Your child will not read any of these books.  He does not know that a choice between two options you have deemed acceptable will make him feel empowered.  He will make a third choice.  When he disapproves of his options, he will inform you loudly, “That is not a choice!” 

 In return, you will say things you have not said since seventh grade, like, “Fine. Be that way.”
You are a middle-school girl being taunted by a tiny, strong-willed narcissist.  You will wonder how he got so stubborn.  Sometimes, knowing he got it from you will make you laugh.  A lot. Sometimes you will cry. A lot. You will learn that even the cool girls, with their fancy handbags and designer sunglasses, cry, too.  And that sometimes the mom covered in spit-up stains seems to be having more fun than is reasonable.  You will try to learn how she does it.  You will start to notice that sometimes you laugh out loud at your beloved child when he is being especially unreasonable.  You will be relieved to know he has a sense of humor when he laughs with you. 

Some time after you have read all the books and think you have dodged all the nosy questions about how, when, where, and for how long your kid sleeps, nurses, eats, plays independently, and uses the toilet, you will realize you don’t care what they think, these arbiters of proper parenting--the authors, the pediatricians, the preschool teachers, the cool moms, your mother.  You don’t care about being normal anymore.  Though you still dream about a good night’s sleep the way you used to dream about a good-night kiss.

Congratulations!  You’ve graduated from middle school.



Shakira
July 2012