EVERYTHING
FOR YOUR FAMILY
Early Years
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I fear I’ve become one of those people about whom I used to complain. You know the ones. Complete strangers, these otherwise well-behaved adults light up upon spotting a pregnant woman in the supermarket. They pat your belly with familiarity and offer cheerfully candid if totally unsolicited descriptions of their own labor and delivery experiences, complete with scary medical terms and near-death experiences. Then they offer their special advice and wish you good luck. Months later they accost you and your new baby in the spirit of a pennant victory, Olympic relay or some kind of collective congratulation, as if they’d somehow been there with you or as if, at that key moment, when the doctors had nearly given up, you suddenly reached back and turned up that memory of meeting them at Trader Joe’s, recalled their advice, and as a result, got through the birth. There’s more to say, after all. Much more. I can see myself doing it now, but can’t help myself. I approach you as you are trying to load both the baby and the grocery bags in the car, as the grocery cart makes its slow getaway with one or the other (baby and/or groceries) still inside. “Let me help you with that,” I offer, and in the next breath explain my own sophisticated strategy of wedging the cart in between cement planters and tire stoppers. “And don’t worry about rolling it back to the cart collection station,” I say, granting unasked-for absolution, “You’ve got the best excuse.” Yes, 2 1/2 years into it, I am a know-it-all parent. I am the Nosy Samaritan, the kind stranger who crosses the road to lend a hand and bother you with her timeless advice. If I saw myself coming, I would run, but of course, with the kid and the groceries and the cart and stroller, I couldn’t, could I? Kid won’t get into the bath? Fearful toddler at the seashore? Eating strike? Sudden interest in exploring the gagging reflex on his own? Vanishing naps? Refuses to sit down in the bath? Scared of the vacuum cleaner? Wants to listen to Johnny Cash sing “Casey Jones” from sunrise to sunset? Wants to listen to “Sunrise, Sunset” (from “Fiddler”) from sunset to sunrise? Likes to drink bathwater? Picky eater? Resisting the toothbrush? Won’t wash hair? Clings to legs while cooking? Won’t get out of the bath? I want to talk about it all. I really, really do. It’s because I’ve been there, done that, and all so recently. It somehow inspires my unlikely gregariousness when I see what I imagine are parents in the throes of similar struggles. I do my best to really help and not, say, interfere. But that interference line, as I know myself, is different with everyone, friend or stranger. Fortunately, my own variety of benign parental advice evaporates plenty quick, leaving this Good Sam wondering if I’ve really learned anything at all. Let’s consider last week, and the episode I call “Deep Learning” or “My Plumber Teaches Me a Lesson.” The sluggish toilet in the downstairs bathroom finally demanded professional services. My husband was spending more time with a plunger in his hand than a telephone. A plumber consulted weeks earlier had suggested calcium build-up was the main problem, but the new guy had other, less scientific ideas. He plunged and he rooted and he snaked, and when I peeked in 40 minutes later he had removed the entire porcelain throne and was pulling something out of the now exposed hole in our floor. And then, there it was. The embarrassing totem of my parental ignorance: A plastic sea shell bath toy, just the right size and shape to make its way down the pipes and no farther. It sat there for weeks, bobbing back and forth in its tidal backwash, impervious to men with rotos or coaxing . The weary plumber had, of course, seen it all before. He only smiled, with the disappointment of a tired professional whose easiest assumptions about humankind were once again confirmed. As any plumber and no doubt any real pro of a parent might have warned us (and why didn’t they?), all bath toys must be larger than the trap of your commode. Establish a firewall between toilet bowls and small toys or expect return visits from your friendly neighborhood plumber. Like so much in the last 2 1/2 years, it was obvious after the fact, seldom before. So, yes, just when you feel you’ve established some kind of authority, some kind of expertise which of course, you have your child, like some kind of ancient Greek philosopher, reminds you of the true nature of this parenting business: Everything changes. Of course, parenting is about more than a list of solutions. A list will help you get by but that’s about it. And who wants to just get by? Parenting is about developing and implementing a consistent and thoughtful philosophy that reflects your values and nurtures your child. Sometimes our stop-gap quick fixes do that; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes the most obvious answer is the correct one. Sometimes a parenting problem involves thinking about plumbing. Pity the expecting mother or new mother who is doomed to benefit from my newest insight. |
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