Babyhood (9780062098788) (17 page)

“Look, you've been here long enough to know this is the way it works: We're up in the morning and we sleep at night—which you'll remember is the
dark
part of the day. If you want to take a nap or two in the afternoon, that's fine. But basically, them's the rules, and you better straighten up and fly right.”

Traditionally, their response is: “Hey, I could give a crap about your rules. These are
my
rules, so why don't
you
get with the program?”

And thus ensues a hideous tug-of-war in which everybody loses.

The first hurdle was the “Does the baby sleep in bed with us or in his own bed?” discussion.

There are strong arguments for both. Initially, we loved the idea of all sleeping in one big familial bed, but soon discovered that between the baby waking us up and then having to sleep on eggshells so as to not wake him or roll right over him, the net result was we weren't sleeping all that great.

On the other hand, when he's in the next room screaming at four in the morning and one of you has to stumble out of your warm bed to deal with it, it seems a lot more desirable to have him lying between you so all you have to do is simply flop a lazy arm across his pajamas and pat him back to sleep from deep within your
own
sleep. But we were determined to do things the “right way.” We read the books, we asked around.

It turns out there's a popular school of thought that maintains the best thing you can do for your child is to teach them to soothe
themselves
to sleep. In short—let 'em cry. That's the whole trick; leave them alone.

Now, if you were the
worst
parent in the world, you would do that
automatically.
You'd hear your infant cry and just disregard it. If, however, you're a halfway reasonable person, you run to their side and do whatever it takes to get them to sleep. You make sure they're fed, changed, comfortable, warm-but-not-too-warm, cozy, read to, sung to, patted, rocked, cuddled—do every trick in the book.

But not this guy's book. Here's a book, written by a medical doctor, a highly regarded professional pediatrician, that says, “No, don't do that. Just walk away. They'll stop eventually.”

N
ow, our son had developed a particularly ambitious routine. He went down every night at about 8:00
P.M.
and was up at 5:30 the next morning, but had several shows in between, customarily at 10:30, 1:30, 3:15, 4:00, and 4:40. Seven shows a night, my son was basically Vaudeville with Diapers. So we decided this hard-nosed approach was just what we needed. (The other option—shooting ourselves—seemed ultimately unreasonable.)

So we put the young prince to bed, tucked him in, sang to him, and started to sneak quietly away from his crib. Before we got to the door, he started to wail. We looked at each other—“You've
got
to be strong, soldier.”

The book says you're supposed to let them cry for
five minutes,
then you can pat them a little bit.

I didn't last long.

“I'm going in.”

“Don't.”

“But he's crying.”

“I know, but the book said . . .”

“I don't care about the book, he's crying!”

“If we don't do it, we're going to be his slaves for the rest of our lives. Do you want that?”

“No, but—”

“Okay, so let's wait.”

As he continued to cry, we sat on the floor just outside his door and stared at our watches.

“Is it five minutes yet?”

“No.”

“How long has it been?”

“Eleven seconds.”

“Can't be.”

“Twelve seconds, now.”

My son was no doubt thinking, “Where are those two? . . . They always come when I cry . . . Maybe I'm not crying loud enough . . . Let me try
this
: ‘WWWWAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!' ”

Miraculously, we made it to five minutes, then went in, calmed him down, proved to him that we hadn't left the country, and once he'd stopped crying, walked away again—this time for
six
minutes.

He cried as loud as a person that size is physically able to. We sat outside the door biting our knuckles.

“I hate this.”

“I know. Me, too.”

“How long has it been?”

“Forty-one seconds.”

“LIAR.”

“I swear to you—it's not yet a minute.”

When his six minutes of prescribed misery was up, we went in again, calmed him down, assured him that his Mommy and Daddy were there for him for always and ever, no matter what . . . and as soon as he bought it, ran away again.

If you get to the point of making him cry for seven and then eight minutes in a row—and what parent wouldn't be proud of that?—then you're supposed to go into their room, but
not touch them.

This was
more
torture.

“We see you crying, we know what you want, and we'd love to give it to you, but sadly, we're not allowed.”

B
ack in the hall, now a solid forty-five minutes into this sadistic and as of this point
wildly ineffective
discipline, we sat on the floor, in tears, arms wrapped around our knees, rocking gently back and forth and cursing this freak of a doctor who had written the book. The reality is we were
physically restraining ourselves
from comforting the only person we loved this much, the only person who will ever need us this much, the only one who gives us the wonderful feeling of
being
needed this much, denying ourselves the joy of being able to instantly and thoroughly put another person at peace by merely showing up and being who we are . . . all of that we were willing to forgo just so we could see if the $12.95 we spent on the stupid book was worth it.

Our son, whose face was by now caked in dried-up tears and assorted nosey fluids, had come to a new understanding.

“Well, this changes everything. The one thing I knew was that if I needed anything, I could count on
them.
Especially
her.
But I see now I was wrong. I am alone in this world, and I will never trust anyone again. Ever. WWWWAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Little did he know how close by we were, or how miserable we were ourselves. As we sat there not lifting a finger to help, I wondered if I went through this when
I
was a baby. All those times I cried, were my parents really there but deliberately not letting me know it? Did they really have the solution to my happiness but for some reason resist the urge to give it to me?

And if so, how long did that last?

When I was seven, were they still outside my door, withholding the very things I wanted?

“Son, we know you want the Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, and the Secret Avenger Espionage Attaché Case with retractable water pistols and three-way walkie-talkie set . . . and in fact we have it
right here.
We bought it, but we're not going to let you have it. And by the way, that girl you like in arithmetic class? We have her here, too. Right outside the door. But we read this book that said you can't have her either.”

So we made a compromise. He could come sleep in our bed, but he couldn't nurse. We didn't realize immediately
how
monumentally stupid this was. It was roughly the same as inviting a twelve-year-old to a video arcade and locking up the quarters. But we had to break him of his nasty habits.

So he cries and cries. And he cries even more.

“So, what exactly is the plan again? We just don't feed him, and he'll stop crying?”

“Yeah.”

Beat.

“Doesn't seem to be working.”

I
t is now
four-oh-eight
in the morning and we've all slept a total of nine minutes, none of them consecutive. As he cries, we pat him on the back lovingly, hoping to convince him that these pats and the incessant “shhusshes” we're both supplying are somehow
better
than the sweet nectar he craves.

“We understand you're hungry, but in the long run, this will serve you better. This will build character.” Of course he's thinking, “I don't want character, I want milk.”

It wasn't long before I turned to my wife and said, “I will give you a thousand dollars right now to put your breast in his mouth. That's one thousand dollars, American. I will go to the bank right now and withdraw a stack of twenties if you just put an end to this . . .”

When bribery failed, I started attacking the very principles we had both signed off on.

“Come on, so he breast-feeds through college, that's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Do you want to keep waking up in the middle of the night forever?”

“No, but—”

“Well, how else is he going to learn?”

“I don't know, but—”

“Shh, here, pat him for a while—I gotta go eat some protein.”

So now it's four-fifteen in the morning, I'm lying in bed awake, halfheartedly patting my son's back, wishing I was asleep, while my son is lying next to me, wishing someone would feed him and stop patting him on the back.

Trying to think of some way to soften this for him, to look at this in a positive light, I said, “You see, Son, the thing you have to learn is, sometimes, in life, you don't always get what you want . . . Sadly, I'm forty years older than you and still fighting it, too . . . But, if you could embrace this now, then by the time you're my age, you'll be a lot better off . . . although you'll probably have kids who won't let
you
sleep . . . so don't even listen to me, because I'm tired and I don't know what I'm saying.”

And with my wife in the kitchen, the two pinheads lie in bed grappling with the cold fact that What We Have is, at least for the time being, not going to be What We Want, but instead—This.

Veteran Moms

W
hen people talk about wanting to “have children someday,” what they really mean is that they want
babies.
Nobody wants an angry adolescent. Nobody wants an obnoxious seven-year-old trying to wear out dirty words they just learned in school that day. What they really want is cute, adorable babies who love you and need you. The bad stuff is just the price you agree to pay for having the good stuff.

Which explains why mothers of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds are ferociously drawn to babies. Having given birth, they know the joys: the velvet skin, the sweet buttermilk breath, the sparkling eyes, the look of longing that only you can fulfill. But these are all a vague memory now, buried beneath the tedium and torture of the more recent years. These women have needs. They need to hold little babies, and they need to do it soon. And
these
are the people you want to seek out at parties.

I'm telling you, these ladies are so anxious to get their hands on your baby, you're guaranteed all the quality child-free time you want. Because sometimes things you used to take for granted—like eating with two hands, or sipping a cocktail without twenty-two pounds of Small Person pinching your throat—can be an unthinkable luxury.

And you don't even have to ask; they volunteer. More than volunteer—they
beg.
You could be standing there, doing absolutely fine, and they'll say, “You know, if you'd like a break, I'll be happy to hold your baby for you for a while . . .”

And you think they're just flattering you, so you smile politely and say, “Thanks.”

But ten minutes later, they swoop back in.

“I know you said ‘no' before, but I just wanted to remind you, if you change your mind, I'd be more than happy to take over for a while . . .”

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously, if you want a break, or think you might feel like one soon, or that maybe later, during the night, you might begin to think you feel like possibly thinking about a break, or you're going out of town in the near future, I'd be more than happy to take your baby for a while . . .”

They're so sincere and passionate, it's easy to forget that what's fueling the craving is, “My own kids have sucked the very life out of me. I need something joyful, and I need it now! Help me, please.”

But it's actually a win-win situation: You get your arms free for half an hour and they have a reason to live.

And this is all just one more piece of proof that life has changed. I used to walk into a party and scan the room for attractive single women. Now I look for women to hold my baby so I can eat potato salad sitting down.

My wife and I even load the dice in our favor now—we make sure the kid is up and looking extra-cute and needy. Maybe even spread some applesauce across his chin, so even if they don't see the baby, they can smell him coming around the corner. It's a whole scam. A ruse. I feel like one of those lotharios who prey on the recently widowed.

“Who here has a void within them, a longing, a sadness, an emptiness unsated for so long that I can manipulate their weakness to my own gain? Who will it be, girls? . . . Will it be . . . you?”

“Oh, is that your baby?”

“Why, yes, it is.”

“He's just adorable . . .”

“Well . . .”

“You know, if you feel like taking a br—”

“Here.”

They don't even finish their sentence anymore.

“Here you go, walk around, enjoy the baby . . . Now, where'd the guy go with the potato salad?”

“Yes, but Can He
Do
This
?”

M
y wife and I were walking our child in his stroller through the park when we came upon another young couple with child in stroller.

“Cute baby,” the woman said.

“Thanks. Yours, too,” we replied.

Then the moms got down to business.