the "C" word
Reading is something I still get to do sometimes. I just finished an interesting book (with the unfortunate title of Our Babies, Ourselves) that discusses the meeting of biology and culture in regard to parenting. There are lots of ways to perform this crazy stunt. But it’s pretty clear that a child is simply not meant to be raised by one person in isolation. That Western society views children as a burdens, not assets. That I want something different than physically abusing myself as I repeatedly bounce this child to happiness or to sleep ten hours a day. A friend recommended the book to me. It was very informative despite the fact that it wasn’t what I was expecting. (When I said I wanted to read about different approaches to parenting from different parts of the world, learning about the tribal cultural that tosses orphans alive into the grave with their parents wasn’t exactly what I was looking for, but hey.)
There are alternatives to the ten hours of bouncing of course. But they come with their own risks. I did a stupid thing recently. I spent the afternoon with two other moms. I’ve had a better time at the bloody dentist. After hearing about one mom's plans for baby number two and listening to the other one discuss the fertility status of every female relative and acquaintance of hers, I asked them, one the mother of a seven-month-old and the other the mother of a nine-month-old, how they find time with their husbands. They both quickly and matter-of-factly told me that they didn’t. The sad part was that I couldn’t detect any regret about this state of affairs. The reason they hadn’t found that time, it appeared, was that there was no one they trusted to stay with their babies. Ah. Mother psychosis. It takes many forms. Okay, I need to confess right here that if Isaac turns one and there are no date nights on the calendar, I will hand my baby to the FedEx guy if it means 15 minutes alone with my husband. I then asked them if they liked staying home with their kids. Blink. Blink. Blank. They didn’t appear to understand the question. I think I’d traveled to close to a nerve in their brains and Stepford mode kicked in to cover.
I love my baby. And that's why we are running away to join a harem. Where’s my fucking community?
Stumble It!
3 comments:
Sounds like an interesting book. I'm reading about seventeenth-century myths about slave women and pregnancy at the moment-- for example, the ability to give birth while working in a field, and then suckle over her shoulder the baby on her back. There are illustrations. Fascinating stuff. http://powells.com/cgi-bin/biblio?inkey=74-0812218736-0
What I don't understand about the community-free approach is this: My husband is a major (MAJOR) element in my continuing endevour to stay sane. Babies, I have heard said, make you less sane, or at least impinge on your sanity. So how are you supposed to preserve the fragile life of that infant WITHOUT time with your husband? Just asking...
Maybe they don't like their husbands?
The whole extended-family issue comes into play here, the "here, Grandma, I'm off to the world" status of the Mom. But that's not always possible with daughters galavanting to distant coasts, and Grandmas who have their own careers. Community isn't automatic...you've gotta build it. Of course, it's tough to build when you're sleep deprived and a bit psychotic. 'Tis a puzzlement, as Mrs. Twiddlebug always said.
Now for another perspective. In agricultural societies of past, babies were left with grandma while mom went off to the fields. In slave days in our own South, babies were left with older siblings age four to seven who were too young to work. Now, who would be willing to let grandma move in to take care of the baby, while mommy goes out to wield the hoe or digging stick? And who would leave their kid with a five year old? Bummer. Overlooking a lot of potential on either end.
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