Parenting Philosophy Toolbox, Part 10

10. It takes a village to raise a child. You cannot and should not attempt parenting without a support network. This portion of the series I hope you will read as a call to arms. By that, I mean you should embrace all those around you, literally or figuratively.

Do not push people away for their lack of social graces: perhaps you could help them learn--and in the process learn some things for yourself. Do not reject offers of assistance just because you are afraid of being seen as weak. Accept help that is offered, even if you suspect it may not have been wholly offered in earnest. Thank those who help you and invite them to do so again--and offer your own services in return. Do not be afraid to ask for help where you need it.

The Nuclear Family: Aptly Named
Somewhere along the line, some idiots thought that the best configuration for a family was simply a mother, a father, and their offspring. Now, after many years of struggling to make that nuclear family a reality, people are waking up to the idea that it's just a fantasy. We have to work so much harder to hold this notion true (and to a large extent, I count myself among the guilty here), to uphold the lie that we can do it all without help. Some countries have done better than others at avoiding the pitfalls of the nuclear family. However the United States seems to be crumbling under the weight of its own high demands.

And do NOT allow yourself to look down on those who have the courage to ask for help. We live in a society that considers any inability a weakness. I know so very many mothers (and fathers!) who stay home with their children and struggle to be the one to do all the household chores, myself included. I almost feel obligated to leave heaping messes about when company arrives so that I do not present a false picture of what is standard. Yet I've had moms of younger babies ask me how I keep my place so clean. What they don't see is that sometimes I hide dirty dishes in the oven when I'm expecting company. They aren't looking closely enough at the filth that has congealed on the tile and the broken bits of chips, crackers, and (of course) Cheerios that are ubiquitous in our carpeting. They obviously haven't seen the hard water stains that are practically permanent in our toilet bowls. All these women can see is that my place looks cleaner than theirs. What they do not see, in essence, is the failure of the nuclear family to provide a sufficient structure to accomplish all the goals it sets.

Knowing this, I strive not to envy others whose homes shine with cleanliness because I know at what cost it must come. To accomplish what minimal chores I do manage around the house, I have to surrender quality time with Jackson. In order to have a home that glitters and gleams, I would need to sacrifice a great deal more quality time with him (and possibly my husband as well). The value of the sparklingly clean home does not offset the loss of time spent focusing on my child. Given that he's my priority, my main responsibility, it seems ridiculous that quality time with him should get rejected because someone else might notice it's been a couple of weeks since I last vacuumed.

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When I made the decision to move away from family to be with Andrew, it was initially under the assumption that we were not imminently going to have children. That assumption turned out to be waaay wrong. Having no family nearby, we have no easy place to turn when we need a spare hand or some time off just to breathe for an hour or to get things done that require both loud noises and two sets of hands. Instead we have had to construct a new network to take the place of a familial tribe.

As it stands now, we are in a much better position than when I first moved to town as a newly pregnant, very sick (iron poisoning which subsided as morning sickness began), and physically injured woman (disc-herniation in my neck; no fun). I joined a playgroup as soon as possible after Jackson's birth. I take every available opportunity to befriend other moms who I feel are people I could respect--and who may one day be someone I could call in an emergency to help me with my child. And I have continued going to the gym, partly as my "time off for good behavior," as the gym offers free child care for up to 2 hours a day for members. On particularly exhausting days, I will drop Jackson off at the gym's daycare so he can get playtime in with other children while I relax in the spa and try to recoup some energy.

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The cliche of elderly people complaining about "kids these days" is somewhat ironic. The genetics and the environment handed down to the "kids these days" is given to them by the elderly and aging. As the parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, non-child-bearing adults, and any other person whose life impacts children in any way (which is EVERYONE), we have a responsibility to teach our children in word and action. We also have a responsibility to protect them. No longer is the world comprised of isolated tribes. We are all interconnected and the lines between borders of countries are diminished; the barriers between cultures are blurred, and slowly but surely we are becoming a world of one tribe.

People are social creatures. We function better together than we do apart. Sadly much of our modern culture serves to emphasize our individuality to such an extreme that we all feel isolated from one another. A worldwide culture of lonely people who are forgetting their origins. Luckily we have the power to change that negative trend.

We need to quit comparing and start sharing. If many hands make light work, then why aren't we dining in groups more often and sharing the workload of the cooking and clean-up? Why aren't more parents helping watch their friends' children while they clean house? Let's make it happen. Let's build our networks of friends and families in a genuine way. Let's acknowledge that being a parent is a difficult and worthy challenge that does NOT have to be borne alone.

It takes a village to raise a child. Let's all do our parts to see children raised well: happy, healthy, loved, and cherished by all.

ToBP

Toward the end of the pregnancy, moms-in-waiting are encouraged to make more frequent visits to the OB/GYN or midwife.  During one such visit, the midwife I saw indicated that she wrote in my file that I was suffering from ToBP.

ToBP (or TBP) is a very common condition and nothing too serious--or at least, nothing anyone else takes seriously.  It's an acronym for Tired of Being Pregnant.

And she was right.  I was very tired of being pregnant.  I was also just very tired.  And sore.  And constantly having heartburn.  People kept telling me I would have relief once the baby "dropped".  Not so.  He was so large that it was almost indistinguishable when he did hang a little lower inside my belly.  And he kept kicking me.  Hard.

It's not unusual, therefore, for women to start feeling a little resentful of their wee one.  I began asking the little dear to hurry up and come on out, as I was sure he was sufficiently done cooking in the oven.

About a week before my due date, I wrote a diatribe denouncing all the "evils" of pregnancy that a woman experiences, even when things go perfectly well.  For example, the worse a woman's morning sickness, the better, they say.   (I kept track on a calendar of every time my nausea turned productive.  Jackson was VERY healthy.)

My conclusions then were somewhat superficial, though I still support them more than a year since:

1. Women deserve to be thanked for enduring an entire pregnancy, regardless of whether or not they were good parents afterward
2. The only reasons women willingly get impregnated subsequent to the first time are either induced by alcohol or the result of some form of amnesia, possibly both
3. The first child was probably the result of alcohol or amnesia, too

Sure, there are couples out there who naively seek to deliberately create their own temporary opaque human aquariums.  These people are also usually the ones who have a difficult time conceiving.  Coincidence?  I think not.  These types remind me of the beer called Celebration, put out by Sierra Nevada.

The back story:  A completely awesome group of people gathers each Saturday night at a house in Tampa.  One night, while I was a regular attendee, an unsuspecting member of our group purchased a 6-pack of Celebration.  He took a sip of his bottle and pronounced it foul and undrinkable.  Of the 10 or so of us there that night, nearly every one proceeded to then attempt to try a taste of something so putrid it needed to be experienced first hand.  A final assessment of Celebration deemed the flavor reminiscent of beer that had been regurgitated and strained through dirty pantyhose before being rebottled.  

"Oh, it's terrible!" 

"Let me try!"

Now, I'm not essaying to tell people not to have children.  Far from it!  But it's not all roses and sunshine.  For a year and a half, I never once slept a full night through.  For the first 6 months of Jackson's life, I spent a great deal of time wearing clothing covered in spit up, since he had reflux issues.  Conception, pregnancy, birth, and infancy are not for the delicate of manners.  They are gross.  Period.

And then...well, I have historically been a typical Floridian, feeling chill at 72F.  I used to keep my thermostat set to about 80F or 82F in the summer, and was quite fine with it.  However, the last month of my pregnancy was spent burning hot.  In December.  With the air conditioning running.  Poor Andrew, my darling husband, suffered manfully while I pushed the thermostat down to 62F at night, kicking off the blankets because it was sooo hot.

We were ready for Jackson to find the light at the end of the tunnel and venture forth into a brave new world.

"You don't look pregnant"

Pregnant women in the first trimester do not receive enough credit.

I was unaware of this truth until I was such a woman.  As I learned during that first trimester, until you have a telltale baby bump, people automatically are suspicious of any claim you may make that you are pregnant.  The would-be employer I had to disappoint treated me as though I might really have Ebola, since I obviously wasn't pregnant at my previous interviews.

The day Andrew and I married really captured a number of the sentiments I experienced during that time.  The day was June 5, and we had been engaged for 3 weeks.  I had morning sickness.  Bad.  It wasn't as bad if I slept later in the day, so I had developed a habit of staying up until 2am reading, then sleeping until lunchtime.  Bedside crackers did very little to help tame the low blood sugar beast that is morning sickness.  And stress only compounded the problem--including the stress of waking up early.

On the morning of June 5, I was finally going to begin receiving prenatal care.  I had an appointment scheduled at the health department.  I had no insurance and no job.  Surely I was a prime candidate.  I also had an anole lizard dead somewhere in my car, whose carcass was hiding from everything but the summer heat of Florida and decomposition.

Getting into the car after being ill twice already that morning was enough of a challenge.  I smelled my lizard friend's remains, and promptly delivered a dose of stomach contents to the ground beside my car before closing the door.  So far, so good.

The drive to the health department had me feeling a little nervous, not to mention that I had been lacking sufficient caloric intake thus far.  The plastic bag I brought along was not up to the task as my belly lurched driving through a large intersection.  My retro shirt and silk skirt were looking much yellower suddenly than they had a few minutes prior.

Arriving at the parking lot, I found a space at the furthest distance possible from the building.  Agonizingly slowly, horribly embarrassed by my appearance, I forced myself to enter.  Once inside I was directed to complete some paperwork and wait.  After some waiting and nose-blowing and a run to a garbage can, I was allowed to sit and discuss my personal finances intimately with a complete stranger--who then rejected me for health care at the health department (even if I offered to pay out of pocket) because I admitted I was living with Andrew, whose pay was "too high".  Cue reverse peristalsis again, though this time in a garbage can.  Eventually, I managed to cry enough that I could drive home.

Opening the car door just in time, I managed to land my next batch immediately atop the previous offering I had made to the ground before leaving on my misadventure.  A couple more shots of nauseating misery landed in the toilet, and I allowed myself to get some much-needed rest.

My phone rang.  Andrew was on his way home for lunch and demanded that I get up and get dressed.  My vomit-covered clothing was still hanging unwashed in the bathroom.  I felt like death itself.  Still, I managed to let him coerce me into clothing myself and staggering pathetically about until we had accomplished the task of going to the courthouse and securing a marriage license.  I have no doubt in my mind that the woman issuing it believed me to be a heroin addict or something of that caliber.

Later that evening, we went to our weekly trivia game at the local pizza bar, Gumby's, and had our marriage completed by a notary friend between trivia questions.  How romantic.  

Three weeks later, we did have a really nice, planned reception for family to attend, followed by a honeymoon in Pennsylvania.  A few days before the reception, I began receiving treatments for a disc herniation at a new office.  The girl behind the counter blurted out to me, "You don't look pregnant."  The same line was repeated to me many times at the reception.

I assume that people are ignorant of how ignorant they sound when saying that.  First of all, I was showing, but because I had never had any belly fat before,  my burgeoning baby bump looked inconsequential to onlookers.  If I am being honest, it was barely noticeable, but try telling that to my jeans that had gotten tight at 3 weeks pregnant.  The feeling of frustration that I was going through all of these new and difficult issues and gaining weight--and no one could even tell!--was so strong at times that I felt very ungracious toward the disbelieving bunch.

Then a miracle happened during the honeymoon:  my morning sickness subsided.  My appetite began to return, and I regained much of my strength as Andrew and I trekked and hiked about the Poconos of western Pennsylvania, exploring beautiful waterfalls and elegant scenery.  The cool air was a welcome change of pace from the 90F+ weather back home.  After our week was over we returned to home and the real world once more.

Upon smelling the apartment again, my stomach revolted, and I wretched for the last time (until the day I delivered).  A few days later, while shopping at the local food store, a young employee named Ashley queried if I were pregnant.  I answered in the affirmative, though I felt half-obligated to lie and say that I wasn't, since it seemed a rude question to ask.  Unless you're certain, it's better to err on the side of caution, rather than incur the wrath of a woman who is merely, shall we say, well-rounded.  Still, it was heartening to finally get someone to recognize my condition for what it was.  A week later at the same store, another young employee named Ashley committed the same faux pas.  I decided that that year must have been the year of naive girls named Ashley.

Still, I knew I was finally out of that horrible first trimester phase when I went to get a haircut.  Another woman sat nearby chatting with her mother, while we awaited our turns in the chair.  My belly was showing slightly more, though I was only 3 and a half months pregnant.  The younger woman averred that I must be with-child because I was glowing.

From that point on, I decided to be more cheerful as I certainly enjoyed being told that I was "glowing" in my pregnancy!

Iron Poisoning & Morning Sickness

Once I knew I had a bun in the oven, I decided to be a responsible mom-to-be and immediately went to the local natural foods store and purchased some prenatal vitamins.

This I will never do again.

One thing I have since learned is that there are no regulations on what can be termed "prenatal" vitamins.  So, whatever amounts of various vitamins the manufacturers care to include, they can and do.

Within a week of beginning to take these vitamins, I moved the first stage of my belongings to Andrew's apartment--and I forgot to bring my special vitamins.  So, I went out and bought some more of a different brand, also from the all-natural section of the store.  A day or so later, I was having serious pains in my digestive tract.  We weren't sure of the cause at first, but it seemed like it might be a passing thing, so we continued on our 2+ hour journey to collect more of my horde of items from my old apartment.  After arriving there, we learned that it may have been related to constipation, so we got some laxatives.

Pain was constant and intense.  Several doses of laxatives later, and about 48 hours into the pain with no relief, we decided to go to the ER.  I had no health insurance.

At first, everything seemed to go well.  The medical professionals wanted to run tests to try and ascertain the status of the baby.  (We did not yet know the vitamins were the cause of my pain.)  An inept almost-nurse stabbed me several times over trying to take a blood sample.  Then I was catheterized.  They reverse-filled my bladder with water so that an ultrasound image could show my uterus.  [I was later billed $50 for a pharmacy item, which turned out to be that bag of water!]

Then I got to see Jackson for the first time!  He was so, so tiny, having only gestated about 5 weeks at that point.  Just the tiniest little flicker on a black and white monitor showed Andrew and I our little darling's heartbeat and a body smaller than the tip of my pinky finger.

Shortly afterward, the catheter was removed without the little air bubble that held it in fully deflated (youch!  hurt to pee for weeks!).  A doctor appeared for the first time and probed my belly for a few seconds, then left without introducing himself or even offering a diagnosis.  I was ejected from the hospital with no clue as to the origin of my problem and forced to sign papers swearing that I would pay the bills they would send me.

They handed me a prescription for more laxatives and sent me out the door.

The next day I was due to start a new job near my new home.  I had to call and delay my job start.  The second day, I decided I still needed treatment.  I was rejected from the health department pending paperwork, then I was rejected from a walk-in clinic after they finally realized that I was pregnant.  "We don't serve your kind here."

Finally, I ended up back at another ER.  I waited for triage in a filthy room while a pair of hookers fought to get their drunk pimp allowed to stay inside with them.

After a few hours waiting at the ER, I finally got a nurse (a very competent man with a good sense of humor) and then my favorite person of the month:  Dr. Prabhu.  The doc was a young man with thinning hair, but he really knew his stuff.  He explained to us about the 3 types of iron used in vitamin pills, why I was in so much pain (my stomach lining was missing much of its mucous), and then he helped me out.  I was so dehydrated from being barely able to ingest anything for days, plus all the laxatives, so they stuck me on a saline drip.  He gave me Maalox and some directions for other relief, and I finally started to feel better.

Nervous about the prospect of losing my new job, I tried to work right away.  This was abig  mistake, as I began morning sickness that day and still was exhausted and in pain.  My new employer and I quickly agreed that I was in no condition to work and that a replacement was best found.  The next 8 weeks I spent on bed rest, for the most part.

The oddest part of the whole experience (besides the doubt everyone expressed that iron could be so unforgiving) was the reaction Andrew and I had towards Dr. Prabhu.  For whatever reason, we both agreed that if we were zombies, his head would look extremely tasty--a delicacy of sorts.

The first ER visit was more like something out of a sitcom.  My mother had been present, at my request, as she was the only one outside of Andrew who knew about my pregnancy yet.  With Andrew on my left and Mom on my right, we expressed our sincere amazement at how I had been impregnated so easily in the first place.  My brave fiance then declared that it was my fault, telling my mother that I should have listened to him.  After all, "I told her not to swallow!"