This is something from my archives. It was originally published February 16, 2010. Everything is fine, but I am dealing with a baby two weeks short of one year who has learned to walk and has decided she’d rather practice that than sleep. Please enjoy.
Last night Baby V drifted off to sleep at around 6:40 p.m. She napped in the car on the way home from Eaton Canyon, falling asleep almost the second I strapped her in the car seat. I knew this would interfere with her nap, but her second nap is hit or miss lately. Sometimes it’s 20 minutes long, sometimes she skips it altogether, still other times she sleeps for an hour and 15 minutes. We left the hiking trail around 3:30, so her 20 minute snooze in the car was right on time.
When we got home, I sat to nurse her (hopefully) back to sleep, while Odie grabbed a cocktail and disappeared into his mancave. I struggled to get her down for about an hour before it became clear that Baby V was awake and staying that way. I envied Odie his hour of mancave time. Any free time I get (like right now, as I write this) is accompanied by my baby’s wails of protest that she is not ON MY BODY AT EVERY MOMENT OF TIME.
Odie emerged from the mancave and helped entertain Baby V since she was going to be awake until bedtime. He was happy to let me have some computer time and a glass of wine. They “walked’ around the house, played with toys, banged on the drum, and the like for about an hour. Every time Baby V looked at me during this time, however, she emitted a whine/yell that pierces my brain and sets my nerves on edge every time I hear it. Nature did not design baby wails to be easy for mommies to ignore.
He tried all his tricks. There aren’t many. Not lately. Since she turned about 8 and a half months, nothing but being held by Mommy will do. Everything else is just distracting her from the fact that she’s not with me. It’s sweet a lot of the time, but it’s terribly frustrating other times. Last night was one of those times. She fell asleep around 6:40, like I mentioned, but then she popped awake at 8:00. I thought she’d just stir and then go back down, but she stayed awake. Until 11:00. I was insistent about trying to nurse her back down because I just didn’t have the energy to sit and play toys with her and I feared it would wind her up. Even though she was stubbornly awake, she kept sort of dozing off. As soon as I thought, “Maybe, just maybe this is it!” she would pop her eyes open in a wide exaggerated way and show me that this was indeed NOT IT.
At 9:30, Odie emerged from his mancave to let me know he was going to hit the hay. I couldn’t be gracious. I said, “Lucky you,” as Baby V squealed and pinched my nipples.
For just one day, I’d like to be the daddy. I’d like to hand the baby off to my spouse whenever she fusses and know that she’ll be well taken care of. I’d like to drink as many beers as I like and not worry about how the alcohol will affect my child. I’d like to leave 100% of the feeding and sleeping of the baby to another person. I’d like to change between 3 and zero diapers. I’d like a room of my own where I can go and shut the door and spend an hour or two however I please, knowing that the baby will not cry for me or need me. I’d like to have the satisfaction of knowing that I go to work and make the money for the family and be able to spend that money how I choose.
I’d like to sleep 7-8 hours in a row, uninterrupted. Or if I do wake up at the sound of my wife feeding our baby, I’d like to know she’s handling it and go back to sleep.
Okay, fantasy over. I know Odie works hard. I know how difficult it is to be a teacher because I’ve been one for 10 years. I don’t know how hard it is to be a math teacher. Math is a pretty universally loathed subject and even CNN can’t report on the TED conference without referring to the participants as “math nerds.” Not “math enthusiasts” or “math geniuses,” they have to go with the cruel and stigmatizing “nerds.”
I also know Odie loves our daughter and is willing to lend a hand whenever I ask. There is literally no task I have or could ever ask him to do that he would not take on. He’s that good of a father. The rub is that we are doing “Attachment Parenting” which puts the father very much in a supporting role as long as Baby V is nursing (which will be until she is at least one and probably longer). I have no complaints about Odie as a father.
But I’d like to trade places for a day. Preferably a Saturday.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Independence Day
On the 4th hour of “Today” on NBC several weeks ago, Kathie Lee told the writer of an article about the superiority of French parenting that it is “so important” that children be self-sufficient and play independently. Why is it “so important” and who says so?
A woman in the original article told her American friend that she works all day, and so evenings are her time. Adult time. She doesn’t want to spend HER time with the children. They need to be able to entertain themselves. I wonder when is the children’s time. Why have children if you don’t want to be around them?
I hear about the importance of independence all the time.
My three year-old is supposed to just leave me the hell alone. When she goes to bed, I’m supposed to close the door and walk away from her, ignoring her cries. She needs to learn to self soothe. She needs to learn, apparently, that the world is a scary, ugly place where she will not get her needs met. Mommy won’t always be there, so Mommy should start NEVER being there. As soon as possible. Some people say at four months, we should start “teaching” our babies to be alone by letting them cry in their cribs.
What will happen to her if she gets used to me holding her and stroking her hair and telling her audacious lies like “It’s going to be okay”? She won’t be ready! The world will beat her down. Or worse yet, she will be an “entitled brat.” That’s what I hear about children who are raised like I raise mine. They’re brats. They cry when they are sad, scared, mad, or disappointed. They need me and their father. They have not been trained to be compliant and “nice.” The last one is intentional by me. I don’t want my daughters to be nice. Bad guys prey on the nice.
My children are too young to be independent. They’ll be independent for decades. They’re supposed to be dependent now. It says so right on my taxes.
I’m the one who is supposed to be independent. I have to lead by example. It isn’t always easy. Fuck, it’s NEVER easy. I love being with my children. I rarely spend any time alone. Parents of older children and grown children tell me to enjoy it now. My own father, who has a daughter in college as well as four grandchildren, told me as he admired the all-consuming love my baby showers on me: “It will never be like this ever again. She will never love you as much as she loves you right now.” He says it with a broken heart. He tells me how that Subaru commercial where the dad is giving the keys to a six year-old who suddenly turns into a 16 year-old breaks him every time. “I know it’s coming. I know that it will cut to her as an adult, but it still gets me and squeezes my guts. Every. Time.”
But I’m supposed to make them go away in the evenings, because that’s my time? My time to do what? What about these precious years that go by so fast? What about how you tell me “enjoy it”? What am I supposed to enjoy? Them playing alone in another room?
I would like more time to myself and alone with my husband. No doubt about it. Last weekend we visited with friends who have a daughter graduating from high school. They were in town for a wedding, looking forward to an evening of dancing, drinking, and spending the night together alone in a hotel. Odie and I were practically salivating with envy.
My good friend has a young daughter. No, wait. She just started her freshman year at our school. No! She just graduated! What? When the hell did that happen?
It’ll happen to us too. We’ll be handing over those keys and watching them drive away. Tonight, I’ll watch “The Lion King” again and cuddle them all night long.
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