Oh, baby
Sure, you may see a sweet little bundle of innocence, quiet for once (thank god), but what I see is a life-changer, a preverbal beast that will wake you up every two hours for the next two and a half years, that will still be coming into your bed five years later, tossing and turning with that cough that refuses to go away. Between his hacks and the exploring feet (depending on his position, thrust between your thighs, wedged into the small of your back, playing against the back of your neck) and that damn cat, you’ll never get a full night’s sleep again.
Whenever I hear that someone is having their first baby, Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N’Roses pops into my head. This is especially true for the older parents, the ones who have spent a decade or two sleeping in and going out to dinner whenever they want. Having a baby changes things and at first the change may not be so welcome. Here is this tiny dependent creature, so sweet (truly), who can’t really tell you what he or she wants yet demands you take care of all of his needs. “Demands:” it isn’t a fair word at all. Babies need us and sometimes that can be totally overwhelming, especially when you don’t get more than two hours of uninterrupted sleep for years and when you feel like you have no idea what you are doing.
Then there’s the way a baby can slam you into your past, the past that may be present anyway. When my son was born a little over five years ago, we lived on the East Coast, close to my mother and a four hour drive from my father. We had naive (and perhaps unfair) hopes that my mother would help with the baby. At the time, her life was a bit chaotic, as it was for most of my childhood. She was entangled in an unhealthy relationship with someone who had a serious substance abuse problem. This person – let's call him Ricky, the addict with the little boy's name – had access to her car even though he was unlicensed. He brought strange characters into her house. He drove her around town on scrap metal hunts, adventures in Baltimore's underbelly, and borrowed money from her when his ran out. The night I went into labor, he had "borrowed" her car. Our plans for her to help that first week were scrapped as she tried to locate her car and dealt with other Ricky-related problems.
Being abandoned by my mother at a critical moment was a familiar feeling. Having a tiny being that depended on me when I felt so incompetent and unworthy didn't help. The switch from a life of controlling my own time and being out in the world independently to being on baby time and hardly ever leaving his side was a difficult one. Meanwhile, the boy didn’t sleep in general or at all without a warm presence beside him in the bed. My mother problems, my “abandonment issues” were kicking me in the ass. Welcome to the jungle . . .
We adjust. We find our way as parents. Still, I can’t look at a picture of a baby without remembering my son's first year and wishing I could do it all over again with a clear mind, letting the baby be a baby and me be a mother, competent and necessary.
The photo was the prompt. Jane Underwood of the Writing Salon is the photographer.