Since I had a baby, people are eager to offer me advice. Mostly their advice morphs me into a rebellious teenager who is immediately motivated to do the opposite of whatever I am being told to do. Apparently it does take a village to raise a child, but I’m not sure I need the whole village in my living room offering me advice.
For example, a couple of months ago, Colin hadn’t yet rolled over. I wasn’t really worried. It seems like there are lots of lucrative job opportunities that don’t involve rolling over. Other people advised me to worry, however, and one person said pointedly, “It’s because you’re not putting him on his stomach enough.”
And she was right. I didn’t put him on his stomach much, primarily because he cried every time I did. I felt bad for him. I can’t think of a comparable exercise I do such that when I get tired, my face smacks into the floor. Poor guy. Tummy time just didn’t look like much fun.
But let’s be honest. Is it really possible that one day, as a married man, Colin would climb into bed and say to his wife, “Well, I’d sure like to roll over and give you a good night kiss, but I’ve never mastered the art of rolling over since my mother just didn’t put me on my stomach enough as a baby”? I think I’m safe.
He rolls over now with such prowess that I’m considering signing him up for the next Olympics.
Another example of people giving me unsolicited advice is when, at a recent party, Colin kept dropping his rattle. I’m okay with the five second rule, but one guest at the party wasn’t. She insisted on washing the rattle each time it was dropped. She either took it dutifully to the sink to wash it or handed it to me to do the task. I didn’t want to argue, and I didn’t really know how to say, “Eh, he likes it with a little bacteria mixed in,” so I washed the toy and figured we’d resume our former bad habits after she left. This resulted in roughly 4,624 rattle washings. I was feeling like a saint, until another guest criticized, “How’s that baby ever going to get immunity if you keep washing the rattle?” Argh! I couldn’t win.
Then there was the pacifier debate. Sometimes I tried to wean Colin off of it—mostly because, around three in the morning when my arm was dangling over his crib holding the pacifier in his mouth for him, I had dull memories that I used to spend my nights in a different way. People were pretty vocal that denying him of his pacifier made me a bad mother. (They didn’t offer to come over at 3 am and hold the pacifier in his mouth, incidentally.) When I gave up and let Colin have the pacifier, people adamantly told me that this would ruin his teeth, create a lifelong addiction, and lengthen the recession. These worries just seemed so silly. Was there really any danger that he’d be clandestinely taking a hit of it as he walked down the aisle to collect his diploma?
He sucks his thumb now instead of a pacifier, so the economy is safe, and my arm has returned to my bed. I’m sure someone will advise me to amputate his thumb to eliminate this habit in the near future, however.
Food is another area where people’s fountains of wisdom runneth over. People think I’m poisoning my baby if I don’t make the food for him. Sure, I mush up the odd banana and avocado, but I think all natural baby food is fine. I’m pretty sure that Whole Foods and I will both mush up the sweet potato the same way. Plus, Colin will have to be prepared for how inept his parents are in the kitchen. Growing up, when my father took a pie out of the packaging and heated it in the oven, he used to lovingly tell guests, “This is an old family recipe—not my family’s—Sarah Lee’s family, actually,” and I am my father’s daughter. I love the Trader Joe’s family recipes, and Colin will too. No need to set him up for unrealistic expectations by smashing his sweet potato for him.
I think the best piece of advice I’ve received was from my husband’s friend, who told me, “We’re going to make mistakes, and our kids will be scarred. They’ll need years of therapy to correct what we’ve done. As long as that’s inevitable, we might as well not worry about it.” There’s nothing like some healthy cynicism to ease the mind. Let Colin talk to his therapist about the dirty rattle he used to suck. At least I’m doing my part to keep therapists employed.
For example, a couple of months ago, Colin hadn’t yet rolled over. I wasn’t really worried. It seems like there are lots of lucrative job opportunities that don’t involve rolling over. Other people advised me to worry, however, and one person said pointedly, “It’s because you’re not putting him on his stomach enough.”
And she was right. I didn’t put him on his stomach much, primarily because he cried every time I did. I felt bad for him. I can’t think of a comparable exercise I do such that when I get tired, my face smacks into the floor. Poor guy. Tummy time just didn’t look like much fun.
But let’s be honest. Is it really possible that one day, as a married man, Colin would climb into bed and say to his wife, “Well, I’d sure like to roll over and give you a good night kiss, but I’ve never mastered the art of rolling over since my mother just didn’t put me on my stomach enough as a baby”? I think I’m safe.
He rolls over now with such prowess that I’m considering signing him up for the next Olympics.
Another example of people giving me unsolicited advice is when, at a recent party, Colin kept dropping his rattle. I’m okay with the five second rule, but one guest at the party wasn’t. She insisted on washing the rattle each time it was dropped. She either took it dutifully to the sink to wash it or handed it to me to do the task. I didn’t want to argue, and I didn’t really know how to say, “Eh, he likes it with a little bacteria mixed in,” so I washed the toy and figured we’d resume our former bad habits after she left. This resulted in roughly 4,624 rattle washings. I was feeling like a saint, until another guest criticized, “How’s that baby ever going to get immunity if you keep washing the rattle?” Argh! I couldn’t win.
Then there was the pacifier debate. Sometimes I tried to wean Colin off of it—mostly because, around three in the morning when my arm was dangling over his crib holding the pacifier in his mouth for him, I had dull memories that I used to spend my nights in a different way. People were pretty vocal that denying him of his pacifier made me a bad mother. (They didn’t offer to come over at 3 am and hold the pacifier in his mouth, incidentally.) When I gave up and let Colin have the pacifier, people adamantly told me that this would ruin his teeth, create a lifelong addiction, and lengthen the recession. These worries just seemed so silly. Was there really any danger that he’d be clandestinely taking a hit of it as he walked down the aisle to collect his diploma?
He sucks his thumb now instead of a pacifier, so the economy is safe, and my arm has returned to my bed. I’m sure someone will advise me to amputate his thumb to eliminate this habit in the near future, however.
Food is another area where people’s fountains of wisdom runneth over. People think I’m poisoning my baby if I don’t make the food for him. Sure, I mush up the odd banana and avocado, but I think all natural baby food is fine. I’m pretty sure that Whole Foods and I will both mush up the sweet potato the same way. Plus, Colin will have to be prepared for how inept his parents are in the kitchen. Growing up, when my father took a pie out of the packaging and heated it in the oven, he used to lovingly tell guests, “This is an old family recipe—not my family’s—Sarah Lee’s family, actually,” and I am my father’s daughter. I love the Trader Joe’s family recipes, and Colin will too. No need to set him up for unrealistic expectations by smashing his sweet potato for him.
I think the best piece of advice I’ve received was from my husband’s friend, who told me, “We’re going to make mistakes, and our kids will be scarred. They’ll need years of therapy to correct what we’ve done. As long as that’s inevitable, we might as well not worry about it.” There’s nothing like some healthy cynicism to ease the mind. Let Colin talk to his therapist about the dirty rattle he used to suck. At least I’m doing my part to keep therapists employed.
