You know, one
of those moments where mom guilt and other mom judgement meet to sucker punch
you in the parental gut while you do your darndest to smile and nod and be
graciously ‘grown up’? One of those moments.
Allow me to
elaborate…
There I was
chatting away merrily to a mom I hardly know at a birthday party when suddenly
it happened – “Oh. Is that how she crawls?” she said. “Um, yeah. We call
it a ‘kershuffle’, half crawl, half bum shuffle,” I said. ‘Other mom’ kept
quiet for a moment, observed my kershuffler closely, frowned, an uber concerned
frown, and said (in a super serious, head mistress meets carb-phobic dietician
tone) “You do know how important crawling is, hey? You should really do
something about it.”
Um. Yeah. The
sarcasm cometh…
Do I know
how important crawling is?
No. No. Of
course I don’t. I’m totally 100% okay with the fact that my first born, the
love of my life, has short-circuited a major developmental milestone and gets
judged every time she kershuffles across a kid-friendly restaurant’s play area.
In fact, so deep rooted is my first-time-mom negligence that I’ve been giving
her cow’s milk since birth ‘cos breastfeeding wrecks your boobs and formula is
just so expensive. I mean, seriously. Seriously?!?
I should
really do something about it.
Well, yeah,
maybe… but making appointments and keeping them? Soooo much admin. I
mean, I barely manage to keep my monthly manicure appointment and it’s not like
you’ve ever seen a bride kershuffle down an aisle. Now, where’s that bottle of
tequila so that I can down it and cross the mid-line driving home?
Right, now that
I’ve gotten that rather childish response out of my system, let me explain why
I felt the need to write this post…
Do I know how important crawling is? Yes, I do. My sister is
an accomplished, respected paediatric OT. Does the fact that ‘other mom’ felt
the need to ask me piss me off in eleven official languages? Yes, yeah, yebo.
Why? Well, while I get that the comment probably came from a good place (maybe
even a helpful, loving, concerned place) IT IS NOT OKAY to assume that a child
is doing something or not doing something because their mom is doing something
wrong (insulting) or doesn’t know better (patronising).
In our social
circles, the Northern Suburbs bubble, where baby massage classes and sleep
consultants are the norm, where Baby Sense is as common a baby shower
gift as an amber teething necklace, where ‘to Bumbo or not to Bumbo’ is
discussed during gluten-free tea breaks of age appropriate play stimulation
workshops… I’m willing to bet my left, less than perky boob that the mom
crossing your path at Papacinos knows just as much as you do and there’s a
99.9% chance that she’s been to the physio/chiro/OT, read the book/s, had the
consultant/s in, bought the fancy, schmancy imported what nots and could
really, really do with support rather than advice and a pat on the back instead
of a kick in the proverbial nuts.
If her baby
should be sleeping through by now… She knows. If her baby should
be feeding themselves… She knows. If her baby should be
sitting/crawling/standing/walking… She knows. If her baby should have
more teeth/less teeth by now… she knows. If her baby should not be
kershuffling...
She knows.
You really don't need to tell her.
When the ‘other
mom’ looked at my kershuffler and judged her, telling me that I should do
something about it, I felt a pang. If you’re a mom, you’ll know that pang… that
little twist in your heart that hurts like your head after too much wedding
reception champers. It’s that pang that simultaneously makes you want to lash
out and retreat, to set the record straight and beat yourself up ‘cos having a
child is not ‘one plus one equals two’, it’s not do this and get that… it’s
unpredictable and messy and blurry and all sorts of what if’s and if only’s and
what have I gotten myself into's.
I know that
this has been a long post – an all-over-the-place, emotion-fuelled, soap box
peppered rant – which is why I’d like to end it with a story in sharp contrast
to the one I started this post with. It’s a short-ish one (insert your sigh of
relief here) that speaks for itself…
Back when I was
still on maternity leave. Around the 3-month mark. I was in Woolies Nicolway,
attempting a grocery shop with Little in a baby carrier. I’d left the pram at
home – on purpose (#epicfail) – to give the fancy, schmancy baby sling a go.
All was going well until I was precisely halfway through the shop and Little
decided to have a full on screaming, yelling, wailing meltdown. Admitting
defeat (the toilet paper would have to wait ‘til tomorrow) I made a beeline
for the till and started throwing groceries at the woman manning the checkout
like we were highly-skilled, ninja-like Sevens rugby players. Somewhere between
my throwing (and ‘Mrs Habana’ catching) the yoghurt – and Aeryn making sounds
that I wish only dolphins could hear – I heard ‘Sherinne?’ Hi.’
That voice
belonged to a familiar face I’d not seen in a while – a Facebook friend and a
fellow new mom. She was a well-heeled angel complete with halo of blonde
highlights. She told me I looked great (a welcome lie), looked past the tears
and snot to tell me my tiny terror was ‘beautiful’, told me how brave I was to
attempt a shop with Little (“I’ve never had the guts to do it with mine. Well
done.” she said – and meant it) and then didn’t just offer to help, she started
packing my trolley, walked with me to the elevator, reminded me (gently) to pay
for parking and escorted us to our car where she proceeded to assist with
packing the boot and only left once Little Miss Meltdown was strapped into her
car seat and I was baby sling free.
Things she
didn’t say –
Is she hungry?
Is she tired? Are you crazy? Where’s your pram? Why did you buy that
baby carrier?
Things she
didn’t do –
Make me feel
silly/crazy/sad/fat/inferior/incompetent/embarrassed/judged
The thing she
did do –
Help.
And that, dear
readers, is where I shall leave this post.
Point made (I
hope).
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