A lot of my friends are having babies, which sometimes makes me think I should do the same, but mostly I’m scared. A baby is a major life change. What if I wanted to go clubbing on a Friday night? Nevermind that I don’t really like clubbing—I might get the urge suddenly, and it seems hard to dance bouncing a baby on my hip. I know they make little carriers that let you hold the baby in front of you, though, so I guess I could try that. Still, people are always spilling beer at clubs. What if someone spilled beer on us? How dreadful. Those carriers are expensive—I might never get the stains out.
Further, as long as I’m clubbing, I might want a shot of tequila. But people would think I was a terrible mother if I downed a shot of tequila in front of my baby at a club, and I admit it does sound rather selfish. I’d have to share it with my baby, but half a shot of tequila isn’t very satisfying. Honestly, to be a good mother, I’d have to buy her another shot. My parents rarely bought me gum or candy when we were checking out at the grocery store, and I wouldn’t want to be that kind of parent—I definitely want to be the kind of parent that buys my baby her own shot, complete with salt and lime.
I’m joking. Don’t call CPS on behalf of my nonexistent baby. I wouldn’t buy my baby a second shot of tequila in this economy. That’s ridiculous. Of course we’d share.
In all seriousness, I do wonder how mothers emulate the Care Bears doctrine of sharing. I remember my mother used to buy strawberries and give them all to my brother, sister, and me. I eventually decided she didn’t like strawberries, only to discover later that they are her favorite fruit. I might share the tequila shot with my hypothetical baby, but I honestly don’t want to give her all the strawberries. How do people do it?
I wouldn’t mind having a little companion. That sounds fun. We could read and discuss literature together in the afternoons. But, still, we’d run into a sharing problem. What if we both want to read Pride and Prejudice at the same time? I can only hope to pacify her with Dostoevsky while I finish reading Austen.
A real worry I have is that children believe adults spout maturity and perfection. I used to think so as well, until I became an adult and never started spouting. It’s so hard for kids when their parents make mistakes, when parents prove they are not perfect (current readers excepted, of course). I don’t want my child to remember forever the time I let her down at age 12, but most kids do have memories like that. I used to think if I waited a little longer I’d eventually reach perfection, sort of like Buddha reaching Nirvana, but it doesn’t appear to be an exponential curve.
I’m a little sensitive about parenthood, too. People sometimes criticize the way I raise my dog, and I’m hurt by it—how much worse will it be if I’m criticized for the way I raise my child? The first time I took my puppy for a haircut, for instance, the groomer chastised me by saying, “Oh dear, Rocky has knots.” That’s what she said, but her tone implied, “Pretty much you’re a terrible dog owner and human being.” And I wanted to tell her that I’m a working mother—it’s hard to balance it all—and I brush him as often as I can, really. But I couldn’t. Her criticism left me speechless. So I responded by taking him to a different groomer the next time. Then, another time, my husband, pup, and I had just returned from vacationing in Lake Tahoe, and Rocky was dirty from a week of romping in the dust. We stopped at the Farmer’s Market on our way home, where I met a woman who breeds bischons. She gazed at my off-white dog disdainfully and declared, “He needs to be groomed.” I explained that we’d just returned from Tahoe, that I hadn’t even taken him home yet, let alone bathed him. I’m certain I was talking out loud, but maybe not, because she replied meaningfully with the non sequitur, “Bischons need a lot of grooming.” And it made me sad to hear I wasn’t a good mother to my dog, so if someone criticized the way I mothered an actual child, I’m not sure what I’d do.
And then there’s my husband. What if the baby likes him more than me? I often do. I could have another baby, I suppose, but the second one might like him more too. Do I just keep having babies until I pop out one that likes me more? But then I might be suspicious of that one. I’d definitely want to wait until he sobered up from the tequila to see if the effect was long lasting.
Further, as long as I’m clubbing, I might want a shot of tequila. But people would think I was a terrible mother if I downed a shot of tequila in front of my baby at a club, and I admit it does sound rather selfish. I’d have to share it with my baby, but half a shot of tequila isn’t very satisfying. Honestly, to be a good mother, I’d have to buy her another shot. My parents rarely bought me gum or candy when we were checking out at the grocery store, and I wouldn’t want to be that kind of parent—I definitely want to be the kind of parent that buys my baby her own shot, complete with salt and lime.
I’m joking. Don’t call CPS on behalf of my nonexistent baby. I wouldn’t buy my baby a second shot of tequila in this economy. That’s ridiculous. Of course we’d share.
In all seriousness, I do wonder how mothers emulate the Care Bears doctrine of sharing. I remember my mother used to buy strawberries and give them all to my brother, sister, and me. I eventually decided she didn’t like strawberries, only to discover later that they are her favorite fruit. I might share the tequila shot with my hypothetical baby, but I honestly don’t want to give her all the strawberries. How do people do it?
I wouldn’t mind having a little companion. That sounds fun. We could read and discuss literature together in the afternoons. But, still, we’d run into a sharing problem. What if we both want to read Pride and Prejudice at the same time? I can only hope to pacify her with Dostoevsky while I finish reading Austen.
A real worry I have is that children believe adults spout maturity and perfection. I used to think so as well, until I became an adult and never started spouting. It’s so hard for kids when their parents make mistakes, when parents prove they are not perfect (current readers excepted, of course). I don’t want my child to remember forever the time I let her down at age 12, but most kids do have memories like that. I used to think if I waited a little longer I’d eventually reach perfection, sort of like Buddha reaching Nirvana, but it doesn’t appear to be an exponential curve.
I’m a little sensitive about parenthood, too. People sometimes criticize the way I raise my dog, and I’m hurt by it—how much worse will it be if I’m criticized for the way I raise my child? The first time I took my puppy for a haircut, for instance, the groomer chastised me by saying, “Oh dear, Rocky has knots.” That’s what she said, but her tone implied, “Pretty much you’re a terrible dog owner and human being.” And I wanted to tell her that I’m a working mother—it’s hard to balance it all—and I brush him as often as I can, really. But I couldn’t. Her criticism left me speechless. So I responded by taking him to a different groomer the next time. Then, another time, my husband, pup, and I had just returned from vacationing in Lake Tahoe, and Rocky was dirty from a week of romping in the dust. We stopped at the Farmer’s Market on our way home, where I met a woman who breeds bischons. She gazed at my off-white dog disdainfully and declared, “He needs to be groomed.” I explained that we’d just returned from Tahoe, that I hadn’t even taken him home yet, let alone bathed him. I’m certain I was talking out loud, but maybe not, because she replied meaningfully with the non sequitur, “Bischons need a lot of grooming.” And it made me sad to hear I wasn’t a good mother to my dog, so if someone criticized the way I mothered an actual child, I’m not sure what I’d do.
And then there’s my husband. What if the baby likes him more than me? I often do. I could have another baby, I suppose, but the second one might like him more too. Do I just keep having babies until I pop out one that likes me more? But then I might be suspicious of that one. I’d definitely want to wait until he sobered up from the tequila to see if the effect was long lasting.
