Having It All: Part One of 147

Last night's dinner conversation with friends and family took a turn for the worse-slash-better (depends on who you ask!) when Anne Marie Slaughter's infamous Atlantic article came up — and we debated or attempted to debate every possible facet of the "having it all" dilemma. As you know, it's so complicated I could literally write a thesis about it if I did that kind of thing but I don't because I'm way too lazy.

Pumping at work. Breastfeeding. Splitting childcare 50/50 with your spouse. Maternity and paternity leave. Flexible hours. Spouses as equal earners (or not). Women changing their names when they get married (or not). What it means to be a mother or a father, and whether parents-to-be spend nearly enough time coming up with a parenting "game plan" before they have kids (hint: they don't).* The list of hot topics went on and on, leaving me with far more questions than answers (naturally), and a burning desire to continue to dissect this topic a little — or even a lot — more.

No, there won't be 147 posts on this topic, but there might be ten. And my first question — the one that seemed to be "core" to our entire discussion — is this: What does "having it all" even mean? What does it mean to women in general, and what does it mean to women in specific (i.e., you)? And, perhaps even more important, because I don't know that anyone ever asks this, what does it mean to fathers? Because if they don't think about it when they first have kids, they should.

*This is not a judgement, but rather a "whoa, parenting is incredibly hard I wish I had more of a game plan and maybe it would help other people if they did too" kind of a statement.

xo,
Rebecca

Parenting: How Old Is Too Old?

Add another war to the list (mommy, nanny, body) — I think we're on the brink of an Age War. This slightly alarmist article, Is Waiting to Have Kids A Big Mistake? just caused a small uproar on my Facebook wall, freaking out several moms (myself included) and hopeful moms-to-be. (Are we having kids too old? Am I having kids too old? Will they suffer because of it? Will I suffer because of it? Will we be broke? Will we all die alone??!) You get the idea. 

The author of the essay talks about how she and her husband are not nearly as financially stable as they'd like to be. About how her parents (her children's grandparents) will be unlikely to see her kids graduate from college or attend their weddings (great-grandchildren seem out of the question). About how she, herself, will probably die when her kids are not *that* old (I know, I know. It gets so depressing you want to punch yourself in the eye. Bear with me). A similar and better-researched essay in The New Republic gets into more nitty-gritty about the genetic implications of older parenting (higher incidences of autism, etc) and the social implications (like underpopulation — who knew?! Apparently all of us "older" parents are ending up having fewer kids than we would have if we started in our early twenties, so the world is shrinking). Then there are the annoying (yet, in my opinion, deal-able) issues like other kids thinking you're your kid's grandma/grandpa because you're sporting a salt-and-pepper 'do, or the fact that your parents have been waiting decades to spoil a grandkid and by the time they get one, some of their other friends have grandkids in high school (sorry, Mom).

But here's the thing: the world is going to adjust. Right? Doesn't it always? Sure, these genetic and health issues are something we should absolutely consider, and monitor, as a society, as we think about reproductive trends going forward. (Are doctors sufficiently warning us of the risks of older parenting — ie., older sperm and eggs — and fertility treatments? We focus so much on "getting pregnant" — what about after? And if they aren't adequately discussing the risks with us, is it because they don't know the risks?) The truth is, much of this is so new, Shulevitz, the author of the New Republic article, hits the nail on the head when she says that we just don't know what we're getting into. And the consequences could end up being more dramatic than we think... or not.

But what does this mean for you, or for me, personally? There are always going to be extremes (like 50-year-old moms and dads of newborns) that give us pause. For the average individual, though — is it really worth beating ourselves up about our choices? For many of us, it's hammered into our heads since middle school (or earlier!) that education trumps everything. Graduate high school. Go to college. Maybe even get a graduate degree. Spend your twenties building a career, and then find a partner to settle down with. (Don't do it too late, mind you — try to find said partner by the time you're at least in your late twenties/early thirties so that you can squeeze into that non- "advanced maternal age" bucket right at 34 and half years. Congrats, you might even just avoid an amnio!) And it's not just something our elders "recommend" — we're smart enough to understand that it can be nearly impossible to get ahead in a career at age 26 if you've got an infant at home.* Most of us would at least like to try to get to a place of some stability in our careers before we upend the whole thing by having a kid. And let's face it — that IS what happens. You don't have to read Anne Marie Slaughter's infamous Atlantic article to know that as a woman, in our current culture, it is hella hard to keep your foot on the accelerator (thanks, Sheryl Sandberg for the analogy) while taking care of some wee ones. And it's the same for dads who assume primary caregiving roles. Unless you're independently wealthy, uber successful by the time you're 30 (read: Mark Zuckerberg) or you've carved out the perfect jobs that will let you take a breather to change a diaper, it's a complex, tricky little equation. Of course people are waiting to have kids until they feel a little more secure. And, frankly, their workplaces expect it. Why? Because look around. Celebrities, politicians, other public figures: they are the bastions of advanced parental age. At age 35, you've probably gained the respect to say: Not going on the work ski trip. Kid at home. At age 25? Please. You'd be told to suck it up. 

In Jessica Valenti's Why Have Kids?, she talks a lot about how we had kids 100 years ago to get another set of hands on the farm or to work in the family store. Back then, you probably didn't wait until you were 30 to find "the one" — you married the first guy who asked. But that's not the world we live in anymore. We try to optimize for everything (have you noticed that?) and expect we might be able to "have it all" if things are timed just right. That may be part of the problem – earlier generations didn't even think they could have it all, so they didn't try. Personally, I'm still after "having it all," so I think we should keep striving for it. But if we're going to fundamentally change this trend toward older parenting (or figure out the best ways to accommodate it), we're going to have to make some social changes. As Shulevitz says: 

"It won’t be easy to make the world more baby-friendly, but if we were to try, we’d have to restructure the professions so that the most intensely competitive stage of a career doesn’t occur right at the moment when couples should be lavishing attention on infants. We’d have to stop thinking of work-life balance as a women’s problem, and reframe it as a basic human right." 

I couldn't agree more. 

*Not to say that it can't be done! It most certainly can. It's just hard. That is all.

Why Have Kids: Really... Why?

I noticed that a lot of people seemed interested in yesterday's post, and I'm guessing the title had a little something to do with that. Why Have Kids? That just might be the question of the century. Those of us with kids who find ourselves deliriously in love with these little beings also find ourselves deliriously exhausted — and even after only 14 months, I am starting to understand why there have been so many articles debating whether or not people who have kids are happier than people who don't (FYI: the jury is still waaaay out on that one).* But I don't think the question should really be "are we happier; are they happier?" — after all, it's not a competition. And why should we assume that any one camp is happier than any other?  A lot of us either know we want kids or know that we don't. So if I know that I want kids and Person B knows he/she doesn't, why on earth would I try to compare who is happier? We are probably both happy in our own, different paths (just like I am happy I'm a writer and Person Smurf is happy he/she is a venture capitalist. Different, but both happy — hopefully).

For me, it's more a question of "in what ways am I happier now, or less happy?" I'm happier because I love my baby endlessly and love how much Ethan adores him. I'm happier because I see the world now through the eyes of my child, who thinks socks are hilarious. I'm happier because Leo is so darn cute (as is your kid) and buying little shoes is fun. I'm less happy because I don't ever get to sleep in anymore unless the moon is in the second house. I'm less happy because traveling with a baby or toddler is a pain in the ass. I'm less happy because I have less free time to surf the web which is admittedly a blessing in disguise. I'm happier because I imagine stuff like Leo's first day of kindergarten and it makes me all fuzzy inside.

Or, as Bonnie Rochman says in her article, "In Defense of Motherhood: Why We Keep Having Kids When They're So Clearly Bad For Us":

Why do we do it? Maybe because despite all the rigors and annoyances, the love between parent and child is unprecedented in its passion. It’s blinding and fierce and feels completely different than romance. I don’t know if scientists have looked into whether parents smile and laugh more than non-parents, but I’ll bet they do. Kids are funny. They are you before you became hardened and wizened, before you experienced sorrow, before you went all cynical on the world.

I think a lot of people are looking for some magic answer to the question "Why Have Kids?", and the truth is, there isn't one. Yes, kids zap all of your energy. Yes, kids can make you feel like you've lost yourself and that you'll never finish that novel or win that Nobel Peace Prize or get your hair dyed or hit the gym. I think most people choose to have kids because they offer some kind of longterm hope, some kind of joy, a promise of unconditional love and a close-knit family and people who will call to make sure you're okay and also people who have to go to the movies with you because you said so. Maybe this is all fabricated, a fake thing in our brains that was put there to make sure the human race continued to procreate — who knows. But it's there. And those little moments of pure joy tend to erase (most) of the harrowing ones from our minds. Kind of like the way you forget how bad labor was (though frankly, I don't buy that one because I still remember that it hurt like a b***).

I am no expert on this subject, certainly. I do know that parents have more gray hairs and probably more wrinkles, but, much like my busted abs, we can look at all of these war wounds fondly (well, sort of fondly) because we know the battle we fought — raising healthy, intelligent, kind individuals who didn't end up in jail or with a face tattoo — was a marathon of a journey, and we made it. On the other side? Grown-up kids who call you and like you and (maybe) produce a couple of adorable grandkids for you to coo over.

*We love these studies, don't we? Every time someone new from Stanford busts out with one, we click on the purposefully provocative title with glee. Will this new article contain the key to my happiness or my cousin's or my own work-life balance? Um, probably not. But I, too, fall for it every time.

What do you think? WHY did you have (or not have) kids?!

HAPPY WEEKEND! And thanks for all the amazing responses with blog post ideas and encouragement and motivation and muffins and rainbows.

xox

Why Have Kids?

Leo and I took a quick jog around Bernal Hill yesterday, sloshing through a few puddles along the way, and while I slogged, I thought about this book that I just started reading, and how even after only 10 pages, it had me bursting with ideas for blog posts about *important* stuff that I would really like to talk about here on Mommyproof — everything from breastfeeding to pumping to the notion of "50/50" and elimination communication (look that one up if you haven't heard about it. It will blow your mind. And not necessarily in a good way).

The aforementioned book is "Why Have Kids? A New Mom Explores The Truth About Parenting and Happiness," and its author, Jessica Valenti, is pretty sassy and also kinda balls-out gutsy (or should I say boobs out? Would probably be more fitting). I won't review the book until I've read more than one chapter (that tends to be what you do before you claim to know anything about what a book is about) but I think she's hit the nail on the head already when she talks about guilt, and how that plays such a huge (and unfortunate) role in American motherhood. This is nothing new — we all know that a lot of us are guilty of being guilty (I know I am), but I'm hoping she'll offer up some good solutions, and strategies for not letting yourself become so wrapped up in being "mom enough" that you lose yourself, your identity, and even your connection to your baby and your spouse in the process.

A small example from my own experience, but still a noteworthy one: natural childbirth. I didn't make it as high a priority as I could have (which probably means it wasn't as important to me as it might be for other women), but I did *try*, and after 12 hours of painful contractions sans meds, I welcomed that giant needle fearlessly despite a long track record of fainting at the mere sight of a flu shot. Afterwards? I told people that it was a good thing epidurals existed, because it was another 12 hours before the baby came, and there was no way in hell I would have made it that long without help. Did I love having the epidural? No. It's really weird when your legs are all numb, and nobody warns you about that. Also, all those meds can make you feel like you were on a mediocre acid trip later on. But once my baby was born and one sleepless night turned into another, and another, whether or not I "got" the epidural was LITERALLY the last thing on my mind. Sure, I would have loved to have done it naturally. Sure, I still look on with awe at the women who have. Sure, I feel a tad bit disappointed in myself, but the fact of the matter is, I am a wuss. I don't run marathons or get tattoos or even fast on certain holidays because I just can't willingly cause myself pain. Clearly, I should add contractions to that list.

My point with this drawn-out story that you probably don't care about? I could EASILY feel guilty that I failed. I could EASILY beat myself up about this or think of all the ways Leo might be more zen or athletic or good at algebra if I hadn't had that epidural. But why? Because other mothers didn't get them, and I did? Maybe other mothers can't sing to their babies like I can. I didn't make a lot of homemade purees for Leo — maybe you did. Good for me, good for you. Let's all just be proud of each other, shall we?!

More on "Why Have Kids" later on. In the meantime, remind yourself that if you were good at everything, none of your friends would like you anymore.

xox,
Rebecca

How do you juggle it all?

Ethan and I keep finding ourselves in conversation deja vu: How do we juggle Baby, our careers, exercise, sleep, chores, social commitments, and life "stuff" — all without completely sacrificing our own sanity (and maybe even finding a few precious minutes for relaxation, or seeing an edifying film like Breaking Dawn)?

Before we have kids, we prepare and prepare for Baby's needs — but what about our own? No one teaches you how to get your life organized and running like a well-oiled machine so that you can put in those extra hours at work, get your kid to swim class, find time to take that (quick) run, and go on a "date night" — all while taking good care of yourself and not snapping at your husband, wife, or (worse) your baby.

I know there's that saying about how you can't prioritize family, work, and your social life all at once (or is it family, work, and your health? I forget) but I'm not willing to accept that just yet. Sure, we can't all literally "have it all" — if you work a 100-hour week, chances are you don't have rock-hard abs and oodles of time to take your daughter to the playground. But can we achieve some amount of balance if we make the right compromises and adjustments? And is an ongoing conversation the only way to make it happen, by constantly reevaluating, trial and error, and a lot of "I'm gonna go to the gym — you take the kids this time" negotiating?*

How do you do it?

*Has anyone else noticed that it's way more enjoyable — even highly entertaining — to do baby tasks together with your significant other (like bath time, the bedtime routine, the playground), and yet, that's entirely less efficient than having one of you bathe the baby while the other makes dinner? Sometimes I hate being an adult 'cause it makes me think of stuff like this. I'd rather just be impractical. It'd be a lot more fun.

Small, but Big

I've been thinking lately about how the world — your world — often feels so small when you have kids. All those months spent breastfeeding in front of the TV, when a walk down the block is considered a big adventure. All those hours logged on the same few playgrounds, over and over again. All those pre-nap and pre-bedtime routines trying to cajole Wee One into his/her crib. It can start to feel like your entire universe revolves around sleep sacks, coffee, the washer dryer and that plastic Baby Einstein toy designated for use only in the car (where it's most needed) that you simultaneously canonize and want to throw onto Highway 101.

Life seems "small" because you just don't have time for some of the intellectual pursuits you might have devoted your free time to in the past. This morning, for example, I was listening to NPR in the car and couldn't wrap my head around how anyone could possibly have the time to dissect the childhood comings and goings of David Foster Wallace. I wanted to shout, "He wrote a book! It was long! I don't have time to read it, though, and I don't know how you people do either!*" You also have to schedule your life around the smallest (seemingly) things, like naps, feedings, and play time. It makes you start to wonder why your own life doesn't just consist of naps, feedings, and play time. Have we** been wasting our time all of these years trying to write, invent, learn and discover? Maybe we're just supposed to drink milk.

So maybe life feels tiny these days. But I wonder — is life also much, much bigger once you have a child? Maybe you are stuck on the playground every afternoon between 4 and 6, but have you noticed those little kids giggling? How their imaginations run wild and nothing they say makes sense, and that makes it even more adorable than if it did make sense? Have you noticed that hey, the sky actually really is blue? A fire truck drove past said playground the other day, and the super nice firemen drove really slowly and honked and waved at the kids for what felt like an hour. The whole playground stopped what it was doing, and in that moment, just paused and totally and completely enjoyed that connection with those firemen, and not a single person even missed it 'cause he/she was on his/her iphone. "Huh," I thought to myself. "I didn't know firemen ever did that."

So maybe I don't have time to read a 1000+ semi-parodic novel, but I do have time to look at the sky, and wave to a bunch of firemen.

*I definitely don't have time to learn that the author was a tennis pro.
**By "we," I mean civilization.

A Letter to Future Me

Dear Me 20 Years from Now:

I want you to remember that they were the hardest thing you have ever done. I want you to remember that you loved them the hardest you have ever loved anything, from day one. Except when they were screaming so loudly at 3am that they were out of breath, and smashing your head between the mattress and the pillow did not even come close to mitigating the pounding in your head or the muffled sounds of your spouse wondering aloud, "Why, God, why?"

I want you to know that you were completely overwhelmed by them all the time. Especially when they refused to sit in their car seats, would not (I repeat, not) eat the legumes/carrots/good-food-group-foods you so lovingly pureed for them in a special apparatus made just for pureeing teeny tiny baby foods. Especially when they had back poop. Especially when they cried and cried for Daddy, even when he wasn't the one who woke up so many times to feed them in the middle of the night that you seriously considered ways to contract avian flu just so that someone might have mercy and say, "Rest. I'll take care of you."

I hope that you finally got that rest. I hope that you have time for daily Pilates-Bikram Yoga-jogging (insert image of preternaturally serene woman in a downward dog pose here). I hope you finally finished reading one of those books by one of those Jonathans in Brooklyn. I hope you finally watched Downton Abbey. I hope you finally went somewhere (anywhere!) and turned your phone off. I hope your kids call you as much as you want them to (but not too much) and that you (sometimes) screen their calls because you're "busy." (I hope you are busy solving world peace-writing the next Pulitzer-winning novel-drinking Pinot-reenacting Fifty Shades of Grey). I hope your kiddos are now your best friends and give you those grandkids you so want (but don't beg, it's not flattering on anyone).

I hope you remember those years in technicolor detail. I hope you still think of their tiny feet and hands and smile. I hope that when you see a young, frazzled mom in the supermarket carting around three kids, you enjoy a nostalgic moment and then quickly flee the scene to get a manicure.

Love,
You

How to Be Good

We spend months preparing for the arrival of our little ones. For labor. For whether we will (or won't) "get the epidural." We prepare Baby's room. We wash all the teeny-ridiculously-cute clothes. Our friends throw us baby showers where we realize we don't know what a Nose Frida or a velcro swaddle is.

Then Baby arrives, and we spend sleep-deprived days (and nights) worrying about whether we're breastfeeding enough. About whether we've chosen the right car seat, stroller, and developmental toys to make sure our baby doesn't get behind on crawling, walking, talking and applying to college. We compare nap schedules, feeding schedules, weaning schedules and pumping schedules. We compare attachment parenting, helicopter parenting, tiger parenting, French parenting. We wage mommy wars, nanny wars, and body wars.

But all the theories, philosophies, and accoutrement aside—what does it mean to really be a "good" parent? Moms in 2012 seem to judge each other—and themselves—on whether or not they baked the most cupcakes at the bake sale, whether they balanced the most amount of commitments, whether they wrote a book and chaperoned the field trip and started a company and went on an extended tour of Italy and prepared back-to-back gourmet meals. I'm constantly wondering if I'm a good mom, even though I'm pretty sure that's a really unfair thing to ask of myself. Isn't "good enough" the motto of most moms everywhere, at least the ones who've spent any considerable amount of time wiping chocolate off the walls or apologizing to the patrons of a restaurant where their baby has just screamed bloody murder for an entire meal?

And what about that other meaning of the word "good"? What about that chubby-cheeked, blue-eyed child sitting across from me scarfing Cheerios and kicking his little feet up against the kitchen island? I spend a lot of time stopping myself from telling my baby that he's a good boy.  I often pick a seemingly random but positive adjective like "thoughtful" or "patient," or even "thorough." But now that he's actually starting to understand—now that he's veering into toddler territory and is no longer my sweet little blob—how can I make sure that he's a good person? One who is nice to old ladies and hardworking and thoughtful, who gets good grades and doesn't copy essays off of Wikipedia? Who doesn't get a face tattoo or wind up in jail? Who sees past people's differences and finds the quiet strength to stand up for what's right? I can do what I can to make sure that if my kid falls off his bike, he's wearing a helmet, or if he hurts someone's feelings, he apologizes. But is that enough? How do I instill in him—really instill—a sense of right and wrong? How do I make him even better—kinder, more thoughtful—than I am myself?

If I could tell myself-one-year-ago one thing, it would not be which stroller was actually best (City Mini? Bugaboo?)—it would be to stop sweating about whether I pumped enough milk or when to start solids (four months? Six?!) It would be to start worrying about how to be a "good" parent. Whatever that means.

PHOTO CAPTION: Baby's first hair cut. He was extremely patient until the end, when he totally lost it and full-out wailed.

Parenting 101

This is a great article on modern parenting that can be summed up like this: "If, at the end of the day, your kid(s) are alive, not screaming (or even if they are...) and you are alive and not screaming (or even if you are...), it's all good." Those are my words. The author says it even better.

PHOTO CAPTION: Boo dada 0[9q2uroiajofi910#(*Q(@). Translation: "But Mommy, yogurt is so much more fun to play with than to eat."