Soon after I started telling people that I was pregnant they often told me that I would gain a new appreciation for my own mother once I became a mom myself. I usually cringe at such tired clichés, and I did at the time, but two months into parenthood, I can confirm what everyone was talking about. I can’t believe my mom did this: Nursing day and night, changing diaper after diaper after diaper, rocking and singing to an 8-lb ball of flesh, constantly second guessing herself, and enduring sleepless nights for who knows how long. I’m also in awe of the fact that she did it before Facebook and Google. How did she manage to keep me and my sister alive without a speedy search engine to answer all her pressing questions? What did she do to keep from going insane without the self-soothing presence of social media?
I never get satisfactory answers when I ask how she survived the baby years back in the ’80s. “I just did it,” is her usual vague reply. Despite her apparent unwillingness to share any new mom war stories, she’s been more than eager to offer up advice when it comes to things like racing to the hospital once your water breaks, demand versus scheduled feedings, and daytime napping.
Well, I waited as long as I could before going to the hospital at the advice of my birth coach and midwife (my water didn’t even break until I was 10 centimeters and ready to push) and everything I’ve done since then has been the complete opposite of what my mother recommends.
It’s not that I’m purposely trying to ignore her wisdom, I’m just realizing exactly how different having a baby is in 2015 compared to 1985. The differences have become glaringly obvious as my mom offers her good-natured advice—feed the baby four hours apart so she learns a schedule, don’t let her nap during the day or she won’t sleep at night—and I quietly take a drastically different approach based upon recent research and pediatrician guidance.
I feel a little guilty that I’m ignoring all of my mother’s well-intended “pointers” but I can’t let her make the important parenting decisions for me. That said, the arrival my daughter has been a big bonding experience for all three of us. When I see my mom soothing my baby girl, I can’t help but think that must have been the way she held me when I was a newborn, and my appreciation for her grows. And whereas I used to find my mom’s sappy expressions of love and keen interest in my life to be borderline annoying, I know I will do the exact same to my daughter.
So while I have to insist that my mom follow my new set of rules, like putting the baby to sleep on her back without any crib bumpers, lovies, or blankets, it hasn’t kept us from fully enjoying these first magical months together. That may change once my daughter starts crawling and walking and talking and the stakes continue to rise, but for now I’m just glad I’m raising a baby with Instagram and white noise apps at my fingertips.
Whitney C. Harris is a freelance writer living in Westchester, NY. She has a newborn daughter named Rowan. Find her at whitneycharris.com.
