Raising Baby and the Culture Wars

Judith Warner , a former correspondent for Newsweek in Paris and author of Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, wrote a blog this week about co-sleeping and the difference between the French and American methods of raising kids. It seems breastfeeding till 18 months, co-sleeping, and making your own baby food instead of feeding babies directly from the table are all things the French find worrisome. The French believe that the nursery has a door for a reason and parents should use it. It was not clear if the French spank, but according to a recent Duke study it doesn’t matter; as long as other mother’s spank too, there is little to no increase in aggressive behavior.

The fact is there is no universal right way of raising children. Bringing up baby is a cultural act, which in turn makes our child-rearing precarious at best. According to Our Babies, Our Selves by Meredith Small, Japanese babies and older children sleep in between their parents. The !Kung San of the Kalahari desert allow their babies to cry for less then 30 seconds between birth and nine months of age. Are any of them wrong? According to American standards…yes, but according to their cultures…no. Good or bad parenting is mostly a cultural phenomena, which makes me a bit squeamish. I am walking around judging myself on standards that have no proof of bringing up a “good” kid. If they were proven to do so, wouldn’t we be following the French or vice versa? Wouldn’t some country or tribe have the market on well rounded citizens?

“Specialists” would have us believe there is a “right” way of parenting which of course, leads to passing judgment on those who don’t follow these newly-minted suggestions. What we forget is that these suggestions are just that….suggestions. Many of which will be outdated 20 years from now. Want proof? Think about how your parents raised you.

In play groups and at my kids’ schools I hear wonderfully-veiled, judgmental phrases like: “I would never do that.” On a Yahoo! site I subscribe to, I have read mothers calling each other “irresponsible” and “stupid.” All this name calling is based on a cultural biased that has more to do with socio-economic standing, color of your skin, immigrant status and mostly, belief system. Katie Holmes can have a quiet birth; just because many of us didn’t, doesn’t mean it cannot be done. And it doesn’t mean you or I are any less for not having them. Fanaticism is defined as an extreme and often irrational enthusiasm or belief. When one mother openly calls another mother “stupid” for espousing a view that she does not agree with, is that not fanaticism?

As a mother, I admit to passing judgment on others. Passing judgment allows one to feel better than those being judged. What exactly am I afraid of? I’m afraid that what I know to be true for our family, for our personal culture, is wrong because some “specialist” and therefore all mothers have said so. I have spanked my children, and there are days I can relate to, and sympathize with Susan Smith, the South Carolina mother who drowned her kids. This culture says I’m not a worthy mother if I admit to these things. So, I am left either feeling guilty or forced to redefine the culture to fit my needs. Who’s wrong? Who’s right? And does it really matter.

Messed up people have managed to raise amazing kids. Good people have managed to raise messed up kids. You can say what you want about my occasional hand raising to my kids, but it's really all one big gamble. Besides, in 20 years, we’re all gonna be wrong anyway.

Head Lice and Other Quality-Time Makers

“P, stand still. If ya don’t stand still, it’ll take me longer to do your hair and we’ll be late. Do you want to be late for school?” Head shake. “Ok then, stand still!”
Our morning routine doesn’t vary much. My kids fill the morning with superfluous chatter. In between the noise, my husband and I insert commands and proclamations, most of them unheeded.
Fortunately, none of my kids likes being late, so in the end, my husband and I hold the decisive trump card.
“P, please hold your head st….” I stop in mid-sentence. With the sudden break in the usual edict, my kid’s attention is on me.
Did I? No, it couldn't have been. I did not just see a bug in her hair. For a moment my thoughts review yesterday's afterschool agenda. Did it involve rolling around in the grass. I can't remember.
Another brush stroke on the other side of her head and...no, that wasn't. It couldn't have been. It's probably the same bug I just thought I saw. Yes. Yes that's it and a very fast bug at that. One that is not only speedy but able to navigate quickly and nimbly through the thick strands of her hair. Fast enough to...get to....the other side of heeerrrr..... I knew the answer.
“Mom, why are you making that face?”
“Shit” was my next thought “LICE.”
Lice, lice, lice can be so nice, nice, nice. That’s what my kids were singing in the car on the way to school.
At my son’s preschool, my diagnosis was confirmed by an “expert” (read pre-school teacher). Thankfully, I had two “nit” free children to deliver to school.
I picked up the “lice kit” from the pharmacy, called the friends we had been in contact with in the last few days and sat down for a 3 hour session of combing through ½ by ½ inch sections of her hair with a doll size “nit and egg” comb.
We sat and talked. We watched television together. We went to the bank and to the library. She lay quietly on the couch drawing in my office while I wrote. When it came time to get her brothers, there was a sense of let down.
Spending alone time with any of my three kids, when they are not sick, is an occurrence that happens on the same cycle of cicadas. That is, every seventeen years. Since they are 8, 6 and 3, they still have to awhile to go before they each get their time.
Yes I know “experts” say I should spend quality time with each one…blah, blah, blah. The point is I don’t and that’s that. So when the unplanned, lice infested, quality-time day came, I took it, relished in it and enjoyed the heck out of myself and her.
On the way to pick up my youngest son, I found myself singing lice, lice, lice are so very nice, nice, nice. When the boys got home from school, I shaved their heads, putting up a “No Lice Allowed” sign. I mean you can only have so many quality-time days in a row. .

That's What You Get

“That’s what you get for playing with my toy” said one of my kids after he hit the other.
“Yah, well that’s what you get for hitting me,” said the other, after she kicked her brother.
“That’s what you get for [insert petty offense here].”

I am so sick and tired of hearing that! I want to walk over, grab whatever or hit whoever started it, send them to their room and scream: “That’s what you get for making me have to listen to that!” Then the adult side takes over and instead I stew.

What is it about those words that drive me crazy? They signify the lack of a great American characteristic...taking responsibility for your actions, admitting and learning from your mistakes. On the other hand, those 4 words are too American, as evidenced by the law-suit happy, it’s not my problem, I’ve gotta get mine, society we live in today.

Wednesday morning, I open my email. On the front page are top stories from KNBC here in LA. I click and read this:

Motorist Shot After Refusing To Give Up Vehicle

The two men talked briefly before the suspect demanded the man's vehicle. The victim was unaware that the suspect was armed and refused, he said.
The suspect produced a shotgun and shot the man once in the right leg and ankle, allegedly saying, "That's what you get for mouthing off," Arase said. (click here for full shameful story)

Great. Just great!

Not Done

I have two more years, two more years till my youngest turns 5. I thought it would all be over then. I thought I would be safe after his toddler years were behind me, and the worrying would be, by in large, over. The toddler stage is all about keeping them from drinking inappropriate liquids, swallowing small items that hold monetary value, and choking on beef, chicken, turkey, or soy products that are perfectly shaped to block little windpipes. It was about protecting heads from pointy-sharp objects that seem to lurk in every corner and small fingers from electrical sockets.

I get word today that a friend's teenager, my friend's child, has been diagnosed with non-Hodgkins Lymphoma disease. I see that it's not over, and that in every moment, until my last breath, I will be terrified of losing my children. My only defense is the "not my kid" approach and then I realize it's not much of defense at all, just a thin illusion that allows my survival. Survival...at its rawest.

That is what I want to tell you about mothering. It's not the loss of sleep, the guilt, or even the moments of rage that are beyond painful, it's the lie that we all tell ourselves. "I'll be fine, once I can get past this toddler stage."