Haunted

I see her as I walk my son into the front door of the preschool. She walks ahead of me, guiding two children by the hand. Gauzy pink wings float behind one, an intricate hat and cape perch atop the other's head.  

Homemade Halloween costumes, I think to myself, my mind spiking defensively to the Target special Spiderman outfit that my son is bringing to school in a bag today. He probably won't even wear it -- he  refused this morning to put it on, and I couldn't see the sense in trying to force it. If it wasn't fun for him, then what was the point? Although it would have been nice to get a picture. I bet she will get great pictures this year of her two kids... But, I say to myself, I have a baby, what do people expect? Into the building we go.

Her hair from behind is dark and shiny; a Pantene commercial. A rich brown with warm auburn highlights. She speaks patiently to one child, sends the other one to her classroom. I wish I were more like her!

I walk my son to his classroom and explain to the teachers that he won't wear his costume. We smile. Maybe they can get him to wear it; and maybe not. If he were the only child in the costume parade to walk around the circle, sulking in his Garanimals and sneakers, it would not be a surprise to me. He does not appreciate doing things for other people's reasons. I can't fault him for that. I am exactly the same.

On the way back out to the car, I pass her coming the other way, face-to-face this time. I almost stop walking just to stare. The look in her eyes... she's haunted. Suddenly I can see it. She stayed up all night to finish that costume, and all she can see are the imperfections. She remembers her perfect mother who she wishes she could live up to, or she remembers her imperfect mother who she is striving every day to do better than. Whatever she does, it is never enough. Another day come and gone, and she is exhausted. And empty.

It was in that moment, one breezy Halloween morning, that I was converted. Then and there I let go my stranglehold on the "shoulds" of motherhood. I knew that I would pass on the complicated crafting and baking. I knew that I would serve store-bought cake and my kids might never wear a homemade costume in their lives. On picnic day I would be the one who signed up to bring plates.

And I began with a new convert's zeal. I began to reevaluate everything I did. I always made Christmas cookies. This year? No! The world has enough cookies. The world does not need my cookies. Once I broke one "should," I was shattering them right and left. And it felt good.

I know that I was projecting my own thoughts onto that mother at school on Halloween morning. I know it is equally likely that she felt buoyantly happy and was just a little tired from skipping her morning coffee because she wanted to do 5am Bikram Yoga instead. But there was a truth to that haunted look in her eyes, and I knew that if I didn't get off the crazy Should Train, it would carry me along with it.

How to Become an Effective Reproductive Busybody (ERB)

It's a real problem.

You're at the mall, and you run into a friend of yours who you haven't seen in about a year. It could be the empire-waisted dress she's wearing, or it could be a few too many trips to Taco Town, but she looks.... is she.... did she get....

You want to ask if she's pregnant. You're dying to ask, because you didn't even know she was married, didn't know she was even dating anyone, and now... just look at that belly! You can't even keep your eyes off of it. You try holding your venti chai latte so that it blocks your view of the little bulge, but you can't help yourself, and before long the conversation is over and you have no idea what she even said, or what you said, because the whole time you were just trying not to ask her if she was pregnant.

After all, you were taught that questions like that are intrusive; that they are inappropriate, and if a woman wants to share her reproductive status with you, she will. And anyway, nobody can keep pregnancy a secret forever.

As you stare at yourself in the mirror in the food court bathroom you know that it's time to face facts. You're in the minority. Gone are the days when politeness and delicacy surrounded discussions of pregnancy. The time has come when it's not only appropriate to share your ultrasound photos with everyone; it's expected. People are curious, and they ask questions to match. You're curious, but you just can't break through that barrier of learned politeness.

Until now.

Here at The Guilted Age, we know that you struggle in silence. We know that you yearn to make the ladies in your life squirm with your uncomfortable questions. We know that you need something to discuss over Jell-O shots at Bunco night. And we're here to help.

By applying a specialized scientific method, detailed in this flowchart, you can go from being polite to a full-fledged Effective Reproductive Busybody (ERB) in the time it takes for them to drizzle icing on your Cinnabon.

We care about your happiness. We care about your comfort. We care about your Right to Know.

(Note: When viewing the flowchart, you may find it helpful to enlarge the image by clicking the "+" button on the left side of the screen.)

You'll Be Sorry

It happens to everyone at some point in their parenting careers.

After two long nights of screaming and refusing to eat, your precious baby finally cuts her first tooth… and then immediately proceeds to cut the next three. You go without sleeping for more than an hour and a half at a time for a full week, and guess what, it’s also time to help your cousin decorate for her wedding, and the home inspector is coming on Tuesday morning, and the house is a complete wreck.

In desperation, you reach out to a friend, a family member, or a social network. I need some sleep, you type at 2 am on day seven of the Teethe-a-thon. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Four teeth in one week! As you sit in the bluish glow of the computer screen, crying baby in your lap, you are on the verge of tears. Or maybe you have gone over that verge and you are actually crying. All you want in the world is to fall asleep without hearing the familiar whimper starting back up.

Then you look up and see that someone has already replied to your post. Your aunt, who lives in England, checking her Facebook before she heads to work.

It seems hard now, hon, but cherish these moments. It all goes by too quickly. You will miss these days when they are over.

It hits you in the gut. Now you are crying from exhaustion and frustration, and an extra dose of guilt. Somehow you are supposed to be enjoying this. The threat of that future day when you will sit, old and alone in your rocking chair, with only pictures of your children to comfort you, comes into lurid detail in your mind. If only I had taken the time to enjoy it, you will think to yourself. Maybe my babies wouldn’t be in prison halfway across the world, and I wouldn’t be old and alone, dressed like Grandma Clampett, crying myself through the evening in this squeaky rocking chair…

Threatening future sadness to mothers who are not currently enjoying taking care of an infant is a common reaction. Very common. And it seems like the greatest offenders are people who have already had children, but their memory of those days is buffered by years or decades of nights of unbroken sleep. I would challenge you to find an online exchange about the difficulties of infant care that does not include a post from someone, warning everyone to start enjoying their work because they will feel sad later when these days have passed.

In some ways, it is a natural reaction to counsel a new mother in this way. To be sure, there are elements of having an infant that are easy to miss – the warm little bundle, those squeaky baby sounds they make, the glow of meeting this little person, the wonder of the tiny fingernails and eyelashes.

The thing is, these kinds of loving reflections take up about 5% of your time as the parent of an infant. For the other 95% of your day, you will be trying to figure out how to keep her from screaming, and trying to figure out how to do something – anything – about the state of the house. You will get all your clothing from piles in the living room. For the first week you will ask, Is this dirty or is it clean? By the second week, you will stop asking, thinking instead, Does it matter? You are motivated in all of your work by the overwhelming love you feel for your baby. But love doesn't clean the house. Love doesn't fold laundry or make dinner. And love doesn't erase the effects of sleep deprivation.

If we think about the “enjoy it now because you will be sad later” warning in terms of a situation parallel to baby care, we can see how ridiculous it is. Let’s say a friend of yours has just had her elderly father move in with her. He has Alzheimer’s and other health problems that keep him housebound and in constant danger of injury. He can't move around on his own. He gets bored easily but can’t always connect with the conversation provided by your friend and her visitors. Sometimes the television shows confuse him, and sometimes Dad thinks that his daughter is a nurse he met in France in 1944, or his wife, or his mother. In many ways, this situation is comparable to taking care of a newborn.

If your friend came to you, crying, spilling her frustration about how overwhelmed she was with all of her new responsibility, would you pat her hand and say to her, I know it seems hard, but enjoy this time while you can, before it’s over.

Probably not. It would sound cold, and punishing, and morbid, and besides that, such a response would lack compassion for the daily struggle of taking care of someone so needy, and for the sudden change in lifestyle your friend would be facing. Likely you would offer whatever comfort you could, and then offer to lighten the load in some way – to bring dinner, to go with her to a movie so she could get out of the house, or just to come and sit with her for an afternoon that week, so she can have conversation with someone who doesn't think the Germans are attacking.

So why is it okay to send out dire warnings to mothers of infants that they should enjoy their 24-hour-a-day caretaking role? Does guilt about having the wrong feelings really ever lead anyone to a greater enjoyment of their challenges? Instead of telling moms that they will be sad later because they are feeling frustrated today, Aunt May in London should offer comfort, compassion, or something humorous to lighten her niece’s load. Something as simple as “I’m so sorry you are feeling frustrated right now” can go a long way. Guilt is not a motivator for positive feelings. It’s like applying dry ice to an aching heart. Shaming someone for their feelings and warning them of future sadness if they don’t change only serves to isolate the woman who already feels alone.

The Guilted Age is Back! And... Giveaway!

After a hiatus, The Guilted Age is back and throwing punches at the way we talk about parenting. If you aren't a follower yet, follow this blog! :) If we get to 25 followers, all new followers who add this blog to their list between 7/16 and 7/23 will be entered in a drawing for a $20 Amazon gift certificate. Post a comment and you will be entered twice! If you win, you don't have to wait until payday to buy Glenn Beck's new book.... (kidding! KIDDING.)

Come back and visit us regularly, and add The Guilted Age to your reading list.

Up for discussion: What is the most ridiculous piece of parenting advice you have ever received?

#2 Count without counting (And don't lose count)

As if the mental and emotional gymnastics of early pregnancy aren't enough on their own, new moms might find themselves tempted to do a simple, easy Google search to find out how to adjust their diet during pregnancy. How hard can it be, right?

Resist! Resist.

Googling before you are a parent is something you might do to research a new camera, a new car, how to clean some sort of bizarre stain on an unexpected surface (red wine on wet paint?). After becoming a parent, Googling becomes a minefield.

For example, if you were doing a quick search on how to eat while you are pregnant, you might come across this article, from Women's Health Care Topics.

Aside from some helpful tips like "The key is making healthy and nourishing selections" (Gee, thanks!), the article also offers two pieces of advice: "you should add roughly 300 extra calories to your diet each day during the second and third trimesters." and "Most women focus too much on calories when eating during pregnancy. Pregnancy is not the time to count calories."

Sooo...

I should be sure to add 300 extra calories (not more and not less), but I should somehow do this without counting them?

Unfortunately, this kind of self-contradictory advice is everywhere when you research pregnancy topics. Pregnancy eating may be the biggest minefield that you will enter before the baby is born. You are supposed to meet (but not exceed) a very particular profile of nutrients, keep a particular calorie count, gain a very specific amount of weight over the course of nine months, and be sure not to become overweight,  because then you will put your baby at risk, but make sure you gain enough, or else you will put your baby at risk. But don't count calories, and for heaven's sake don't worry about it too much, or else (you guessed it) you will put your baby at risk.

The take-home message for this exercise is this: when it comes to pregnancy eating, carefully monitor your Google usage along with your portion size.

#1 Your baby's poo shouldn't stink

For our first-ever post highlighting a bit of ridiculous guilt-mongering rhetoric aimed at mothers, I will be examining a section from the Dr. Sears website. I use this website (and the printed reference The Baby Book) as a guide for the more practical aspects of parenting (medication dosage, when to worry about a rash, etc.). But this otherwise level-headed resource also dispenses a bit of ridiculous rhetoric when it comes to breastfeeding, providing a mom who is having trouble with nursing a New and Exciting way to feel even guiltier.  In summary: it's your fault if your baby's poo stinks.  That's right:

Unlike the stinky stools of a formula-fed baby, the stools of a breastfed infant have a less offensive buttermilk-like odor. Changing the diaper of a breastfed infant is not an unpleasant task--which is fortunate, because most breastfed babies have several bowel movements a day. When the baby looks at the face of the diaper-changing caregiver and sees happiness rather than disgust, he picks up a good message about himself - perhaps a perk for building self-esteem. 

Quote from: http://www.askdrsears.com/html/2/t020400.asp

That's right -- if you cause your baby's poo to stink because of your own selfish decision to feed him or her formula, your own disgust at the smell of this poo could affect the healthy development of your child's self-esteem.

Feeling guilty yet? Let's continue...

"Changing the diaper of a breastfed infant is not an unpleasant task--which is fortunate."

In other words, if you are the kind of good mother who breastfeeds, that beneficence will extend to a natural enjoyment of all motherly tasks, including but not limited to cleaning feces off of your baby's private parts.

I'm ready to call BS; how about you?

Send me your ridiculous Mom-Guilt rhetoric to theguiltedage@gmail.com

Cheers and guilt-free parenting,

--Lisa

Welcome to the Guilted Age

Greetings to mothers, parents, and thinkers everywhere. I am starting this blog to highlight, examine, and critique the subtle and not-so-subtle rhetoric of guilt that is presented to mothers in US culture. To start I will be posting once a week. When you find an example of ridiculous, guilt-mongering rhetoric aimed at mothers, send it to me at theguiltedage@gmail.com. Let the rhetorical analysis begin!