My daughter recently turned 2, which means I am totally an expert at babies now. To you novices who have just found yourselves expecting your first child, I’d like to offer a piece of advice. Here’s a secret that will simplify things as you anxiously prepare for what’s ahead: reading is a waste of time.
I know this, because I’m also an expert at wasting time. Wait, I mean, because in the run-up to the birth of my daughter, I did a lot of reading. So I can tell you: don’t bother.
I understand how daunting it all seems. Giving birth is different than it used to be — the days when your baby was dropped off by a stork are long gone (probably on account of the animal rights people). No longer does the nervous husband pace outside the delivery room door — he’s right in there with the doctors and nurses and forceps. When my wife Jess became pregnant, I knew I’d need to do more than pick out cigars — I had to become a modern and enlightened “birth partner.” So I hit the proverbial books to learn all I could.
I read about being actively supportive during the pregnancy. I learned techniques to help mom-to-be work through contractions and fear and panic. We both educated ourselves about the nefarious tactics of the military-industrial-hospital-delivery-complex, which pushes unnecessary interventions on women to get those babies rolling out of the factory on schedule. We read articles and watched videos about the wonders of natural birth, without Pitocin or epidurals, in a giant hot-tub, just like Mother Nature intended. (For the record, we didn’t go so far as to plan a home birth, but we were sure to pick a hospital that had replaced its “Labor Ward” sign with one reading “Birthing Center.”)
Finally, the time came, and all those months’ worth of enlightenment proved as helpful as using a lawn mower to tend a rock garden.
Here’s how it went down. At home around midnight, Jess’s water broke. A few hours later, we were situated in our private hospital room — sorry, birthing suite — but there were still no contractions. You have about 24 hours after the dam breaks until infection becomes a more serious risk, so you don’t want to mess around too much before medically inducing labor. When I mentioned our desire to get things started naturally, the midwife who was seeing to us stifled a look that said, “Oh boy, one of these,” and said she would leave us alone for a while.
We began attempts to jump-start the baby’s conveyor belt. We walked around the hospital. I attempted some kind of acupressure or Shiatsu or something on Jess’s lower calves. (Hey, at least she can’t say I’ve never given her an ankle massage.) I seem to remember dripping essential oils around the room and incanting the mystical mantra: “Deepak Chopra.”
We tried everything. Well, there were a couple things we skipped: first, Jess wanted no part of the ol’ Castor Oil Blowout remedy; and second, having sex is reputed to induce labor, but that’s only permissible if the pregnant woman’s water hasn’t broken yet. (Not to mention, though our sophisticated birthing quarters may have looked like a hotel room, the constant foot traffic of medical professionals just wasn’t setting the right mood.)
While we’re on the subject, if you nervous, newly-minted pregnancy partners are wondering what you can expect for your sex life over the next three trimesters, let me help you out. The prospect of sex when your partner is pregnant is like owing a favor to the Godfather. One day — and that day may never come — you may be called upon to do a service.
Anyway, sometime in the afternoon, we threw in the holistic towel and went ahead with induced labor. Look — I’m all for reading some stuff on the internet and deciding that I know more than the professionals, but you have to draw the line somewhere. (For me, that line falls squarely on this side of creationism, climate change denial and risking septic shock for my wife and unborn baby.) Things went along well after that. Hazel was born, and I never wanted to pick up a book on child care again.
That is, until now. Did I mention we have a 2 year old? Hazel is the cutest, most heartbreakingly sweet little person I’ve ever known, but the freak-outs have begun. She obsesses about the kitchen sponge, or goes into a screaming fit if I touch the remote control when she had other plans for it. And these are not merely spontaneous tantrums. They’re part of a deliberate, twisted agenda. The other day she cried and threw herself onto the floor of our apartment; when I tried to nip the tantrum in the bud by picking her right back up, she calmly explained to me, “I want lie down onna floor!” — which she did, picking up right where she’d left off. We are in trouble.
That’s why I’m getting back to the books. If reading up on tantrum-blocking Shiatsu techniques will in any way tame the 2-year-old banshee, I’m willing to give it a try.
For those of you just getting started, however, don’t worry so much about what you read. You’ll get plenty of practical advice from the doctor and from people who already have kids. In a year or two, you can try reading again. At this point — wait, you’re still reading this? Haven’t you learned anything? Put down the magazine, go make dinner reservations, and buy movie tickets while you still can. Trust me — I’m the expert, remember?
Tim Perrins is a part-time stay-at-home dad, who lives with his wife, their toddler, and two ravenous dogs in Park Slope, Brooklyn. More of his thoughts about babies and other things that confuse him can be found at www.RevoltOfTheImbeciles.blogspot.com.
